


Blurry

by MissNaya



Series: Blurry (Extended) [1]
Category: DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blindfolds, Blood, Bottom Jason, Breathplay, Caning, Clothed Male Naked Male, Collars, Comeplay, Corporal Punishment, Cuckolding, D/s, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Drunk Sex, Embroidery, Exhibitionism, Facials, Gangbang, Gunplay, Intoxication, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Safeword, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Sloppy Seconds, Spanking, Stitches, Unsafe BDSM, Voyeurism, Wetting, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9435521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Jason and Black Mask play-flirt too much. It's only natural that one day they push things too far.





	1. Heated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during Rebirth. these two have an awesome dynamic and I'm a trash basket who needs more filth. mind the tags!
> 
> maybe I'll add more chapters later, but they'll all probably be just as porny ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Jason isn't quite sure how it happened. One minute he and Black Mask were trading their usual quips, laced with false politeness and thinly-veiled innuendos, and the next, something in the air between them changed. Looking back, Jason thinks he might have finally made one too many BDSM jokes. But it's not his fault, right? If Roman wants to run around looking like he had a business meeting at 6 and a dominatrix appointment at 7, he's practically welcoming those kinds of comments with open arms.

Still. Jason hadn't been prepared for a gloved hand to grab him by the hair and wrench his head back, and he'd almost gone for his gun, but then Roman had said, “It's uppity little shits like you that make me wonder if I got into the wrong line of business.”

Jason's hand lingered by his holster, but he put on a casual air and asked, “Ooh, I like this. You gonna charge me by the hour, or do I get a special family discount?”

Sometime between then and now, he'd ended up on his knees, the head of Black Mask's cock hitting the back of his throat. His life often takes weird turns like that. He's learned to roll with them by now.

Anyway, how he got here isn't half as important as how unfairly fucking _good_ it feels to have the hardwood dig into his knees while Roman fucks his mouth. The guy's a scumbag, a creep, a million other words that wouldn't fly in polite conversation, but every time he holds Jason's head steady and bucks against his face so hard he has to clamp down on his gag reflex, Jason's cock twitches in his pants.

“I like you like this,” Roman says, nicely, conversationally. “Puts that smart mouth of yours to good use.”

Jason wants to roll his eyes at how cliché it all is, but then he's being shoved down, held there, and it's all he can do to keep from vomiting. He doesn't know why he bothers. A lap full of puke might teach the guy a lesson about how you treat your sex partners.

Just when he thinks he's on the verge of passing out, Roman yanks him up to catch his breath, and the fuzzy blackness near the edges of his vision begins to recede. Jason gulps down big lungfuls of air, connected to Roman's cock via a thick string of spit. He licks his lips, and it snaps.

“Knew you were into this kinda thing,” he says. His voice is already raspy. God damn it.

“Oh, Red,” Roman says, and shoves him back down, “you have _no_ idea.”

For the next few minutes, it's impossible to talk, so Jason comforts himself with the confirmation that he was right all along. And, despite his continued insistence that he himself is _not_ into BDSM, he can't ignore the way his cock strains against his jeans. He never thought of himself as a masochist, but between the sting in his hair, his throat, and his knees, he wonders if he might have to re-evaluate some things after today.

He reaches down to unbutton his pants, but half a second later, his hand gets shooed away by one immaculately-polished Italian dress shoe.

“What do you think you're doing?” Roman asks, and the sole of that shoe presses down on the bulge in his jeans. Jason makes an unintentional muffled noise around the cock in his mouth. “Think you can mouth off the way you did and I'd still let you reward yourself?”

Jason thinks that he's mouthing off in exactly the way Roman wants him to, but, much to his continued annoyance, he can't say that. He offers up one finger in response.

The shoe on his crotch presses down menacingly. “Watch yourself.”

Jason can't smile, either, but his eyes sparkle with mischief when he looks up at Roman. He sucks harder, offers up the barest hint of teeth, and elicits a low groan from behind that mask. Looks like he's not the only one with a bit of a masochistic side.

He decides he likes that sound, and he can't exactly do much from his current position, so he re-doubles his efforts on sucking Roman off. This isn't the kind of thing he has a lot of experience with, but he's a man. He tries to replicate what he'd like if their positions were swapped. He adds his hands into the equation, keeping a few fingers wrapped around the base of Roman's cock (though it does little to keep him from being shoved down and nearly choked every couple of seconds). On the upswing, he sucks hard at the tip, uses just enough teeth to draw out more of those growling noises. Roman's foot grinds against his dick, and it takes all of his self-control not to either buck forward or pull away.

By the time he feels the tang of precum on his tongue, they're both sweating, grunting like animals, and Jason feels a strange swelling of pride every time Roman swears under his breath. He thinks to himself that _he_ got Black Mask this hard, _he_ reduced the crime boss to a panting mess on his own dining room chair. Even on his knees, he feels powerful.

Leave it to Roman to start talking and ruin the whole thing.

“Look at you,” he says, pulling his cock out so he can trail it over Jason's cheek. Jason looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, keeps his tongue out, tries not to think about how undignified he must seem like this. “Bet you've been wanting this for a long time, huh?”

“Not as long as you,” he counters, eyes defiant, and gets slapped in the cheek with Roman's length as thanks for his honesty.

“You make it so easy to wanna ruin you, you know that?” Roman tugs on his bangs, forces his head back, and presses the tip of his cock against Jason's waiting tongue.

Jason drags his tongue over the head, gives it a kiss, and says, “You couldn't ruin me if you tried.”

Roman's expression is unreadable behind his mask, but Jason can hear the amusement in his tone. It's lazy, chummy, the way it always is when he thinks he's taking someone up on a bet they have no chance of winning.

“We'll see about that.”

A few minutes later, when Roman comes in his mouth, he doesn't swallow. He stands up, spits into Roman's half-empty crystal wineglass, and retreats to his room, humming out a casual goodbye as he goes. When he gets to his bed, he jerks off so hard that he sees stars behind his eyes.

* * *

 

Nothing changes between them after that, not while they're working. They trade quips and “friendly” insults the same as ever, and Black Mask still insists on treating Red Hood like the son he never had. They run Gotham's underworld like a well-oiled machine, orchestrating everything from international weapons deals to shoving around the little guys in charge of picking up Roman's dry-cleaning.

Things get so busy for a while that he and Roman don't see each other much, and when they do get together, there are always other people around. If Roman had been thinking at all about their last private encounter, he never shows it, so Jason doesn't, either.

All that changes the next time they're alone.

It starts out routine. As routine as things can be when he's tasked with giving a mission report to Roman from the confines of his bedroom, that is. They're both fully-clothed, and the room is big enough that Roman can stare out the window while Jason examines knickknacks on top of his dresser from the other side of his king-sized bed. They trade intel and plans like usual, for the most part.

But Jason can feel it again. The tension in the air between them, the unspoken “what'll happen next” question lingering like static after every pause in the conversation. Jason runs his fingers over an expensive oak watch box, figures one of the Rolexes inside must cost more than what both of his parents made in their entire lives, and doesn't even notice Roman standing behind him until he looks up into the vanity mirror.

He manages not to jump, which he's proud of, but Roman must have caught the shock in his eyes, because he chuckles.

“Hope you're not just working with me to get at all my toys,” he says, reaching past Jason's shoulder to drum his fingers on the top of the box.

“Figured you'd have a whole other room for those,” Jason says. “You know, _50 Shades_ it.”

“Funny.”

While Jason tries not to think about what he just implied (tries not to remember being on his knees with a Bruno Magli loafer pressed against his dick), Roman flips the box open and pulls out a watch. It's got a black band, and the clock face is some sort of shiny metal with a paint job that reflects dark red when it catches the light.

“18 karat white gold,” he says, trailing a thumb around the edge. “State-of-the-art, limited edition. Custom made by my guys in Switzerland. You won't find another one like it anywhere in the world.”

“Okay, but a smartphone is, like, thirty bucks,” Jason says. “Can that thing even make calls? Seems like a questionable financial decision to me, I'm just sayin'.”

Roman cuts him off by taking hold of his wrist. “Try it on.”

“'Scuse me.”

Jason's deadpan is met with a chuckle. Roman lifts his wrist, pushing Jason's sleeve up, and despite himself, Jason shudders. Roman takes his time fastening the watch, and it feels cool and heavy on his wrist. He frowns down at it, wondering how he's supposed to react to something like this. Awe? An offer to suck dick for the chance to keep it? He's not feeling it.

Roman sets a heavy hand on Jason's shoulder, and the pair of them look into the mirror.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asks.

“Uh.” Jason shifts where he stands. “Someone who's way too done with all this weird rich guy bullshit?”

Roman chuckles. He's almost _too_ friendly; it's weird. “I see someone who has what it takes to run my empire when I'm gone. Someone who knows what he wants and how to get it. Someone who _deserves_ to wear a watch like that.”

“You know what _I_ see when I look at this pretty family photo?” Jason counters.

“What's that?”

“A guy who's been breathing in _way_ too many leather fumes. Y'know, I like the aesthetic as much as the next guy, but are you sure the mask isn't too much? I know I bring it up a lot, but I really think—”

Roman tugs his head back by the hair, so hard that Jason actually yelps from the sting of it. He grips the dresser with one hand, letting the band of the watch dig into the rich, dark wood. He can still see his reflection down the bridge of his nose, just barely, and watches his Adam's apple bob when he swallows.

“For a smart kid, you're pretty damn ungrateful,” Roman says. “I bring you into my life, my organization, my _family,_ and you can't be assed to have one touching moment with me?”

Jason snorts. “We both know that's a load of crap,” he says. “What do you _really_ want, Roman? 'Cause I haven't had anything to eat yet, and I was hoping to get outta here sometime soon. Can we please cut the bullshit?”

“I like it when you say please,” Roman says. His grip on Jason's hair never wavers. “Why don't you say it again?”

Once more, Jason can feel something hot and heavy in the air. This is what it was like before, he thinks, before he found himself on his knees with a mouth full of cock. He can't even remember if he was shoved there, or if he went down of his own accord. He sucks in a breath to try and clear some of the fog out of his mind.

“Just a second ago, you were gonna give me an 18-karat wristwatch on some sorta sentimental wannabe father-figure whim,” he says. “Kinda feels like I got you wrapped around my finger even without using the p-word.”

Roman laughs again, louder now, like Jason said something really hilarious. “You think that's what this is? Sentiment? I must've been treating you too nicely, boy.”

“Mm, the hand in my hair says otherwise.” Jason meets Roman's eyes in the mirror, as best as he can when he's still wearing that mask. He hates how exposed he looks compared to him: neck bared, back arched, expression on full display. He hates how it stirs something hot in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, you haven't seen me lose my temper yet,” Roman says, and he moves his face closer until the zipper at his mouth is hovering near Jason's throat. “I never did ruin you like I wanted to, did I?”

Jason gulps. “Never even came close.”

“Hmm.” Roman's zipper presses up against Jason's skin in a mockery of a kiss. “Guess we'll have to fix that.”

The next thing Jason knows, he's lying face-first on top of the bed, bent over so that his feet still rest on the floor. Roman is on top of him, and he's let go of his hair in favor of wrenching his arm behind his back. Jason grunts, mentally goes over five different ways to break the hold, and executes none of them.

Roman's thumb digs into the watch until the sharp edges of it cut into Jason's wrist. He's big and heavy on top of him, and when he leans in close to speak into Jason's ear, the scent of leather and cologne fills his nostrils.

“You really don't deserve all I do for you,” he says, sounding equal parts annoyed and resigned. “Don't know why I keep a brat like you around.”

Jason shifts his head until he can look over his shoulder, and flashes Roman a smile. “My sparkling personality?”

“Yeah. Right.”

One hand keeps his arm pinned behind his back, while the other trails down his side. Jason bites his lip. He's not sure what he's anticipating — whether he's disgusted or excited or something else entirely — but he knows that, against his better judgment, he doesn't want to move. Not really. Still, that doesn't stop him from struggling, wiggling his shoulders and his hips in a way that's just a shade too pointed.

“Should take off my belt and teach you some respect, you know that?” His hand stalls at Jason's waist, and Jason wills himself to stay silent and keep his breathing under control. It's a lot easier said than done. “Kids these days. You have no idea how to behave around your superiors.”

“You _really_ wanna be my daddy, don't you, Black Mask?” Jason asks, still grinning that cheeky grin. He hopes it makes up for the fact that his pulse speeds up double when he says it. “That's pretty sick. But I could tell, you know? Fetish types like you normally like that kinda thi— _Oh,_ shit.”

Roman had met his babbling with a firm smack to his clothed rear end. It didn't hurt so much as it was surprising, but if the goal was to shut Jason up, it had worked.

“You don't know when to quit, do you?” Roman asks, half a sigh in his tone. “Nah. You keep opening that pretty little mouth of yours, and I think it's because you want someone to call your bluff. If you wanted me to put you in your place, you only had to ask...” He leans in, lowering his voice until it's barely a murmur. “... _son._ ”

Jason sucks in a breath, then immediately chides himself for it. He wants to congratulate himself on being right about Black Mask on all counts, but his own growing erection is really putting a damper on that victory. God. He never pegged himself as the sort of person to get turned on by all that hokey daddy crap, but now that he's knee-deep in it, he can kind of see the appeal.

He really is sick, isn't he?

He doesn't have time to ponder the question before Roman's undoing his pants and yanking them down, along with his underwear. He feels exposed, vulnerable, and absolutely hates how exciting it is.

Roman reaches a gloved hand around to grab his dick, and it's rough and firm and everything Jason never knew he wanted. He bites down on his lip to keep from making a sound, but his harsh exhale through his nose is pretty telling.

“Jesus. You're this hard already?” he asks, and Jason feels a spike of shame despite himself. It shoots up his spine and makes his heart flutter, and his mouth is too wet, his head spinning too much. “You make yourself seem so tough, but it's all an act, isn't it? It's alright. I'll give you what you need.”

There is absolutely no reason any of this should be as hot as it is. Jason's never thought of himself as a sub — as much of a sexual person at all, really — but here he is, practically trembling underneath one of Gotham's premier crime bosses. In all fairness, the way Black Mask tugs roughly at his cock could drive anyone insane, he's pretty sure. And he thinks he's holding up well, despite the circumstances. At least he hasn't started moaning yet.

Then Roman brings his hand up, trails a thumb over his perineum and drags it over his hole, and the gasp that wrenches its way out of Jason's mouth is more than a little embarrassing.

“Tell me,” Roman says, and damn it all, he still sounds so _fucking_ calm. “You ever had anything shoved up this cute little hole of yours?”

“Aw,” Jason pants, smiling again, “you think I'm cute.”

Roman's hand _smacks_ against his bare ass, and this time it's so unexpected and hard that Jason actually yelps.

“What can I say?” Roman takes a rough handful of Jason's ass, dragging his thumb tantalizingly close to his hole. “I'm a sucker for a sub who tries to play tough.”

Jason thinks _ah-ha,_ wonders if Roman really does have a playroom filled with whips and chains and ball gags, and tries to ignore how nice it feels to be spread open like this.

“Not a sub,” he says, flexing the fingers of the hand Roman still has pinned. “I told you, I don't play these games like you do.”

“Oh yeah?” Roman asks. “Then what do you call all this?”

Jason thinks for a moment. (It's damn hard to do, with a haze of arousal clouding his head.)

“...Humoring my old man.”

“I see,” Roman says. “Well then. I guess I'm gonna have to show you how it's done, huh?”

“This means you're admitting I was right all this time, just so you know,” Jason fires back. “About the BDSM?”

“Notice how I never denied it,” Roman says. Jason opens his mouth to retort, realizes he's right, and clamps his lips shut. “Now, you never answered my question: have you ever had anything up here before?”

Jason doesn't have to ask what he means by “up here,” because Roman's finger is tapping his hole. It's such a weird feeling, having someone prodding around down there, but every little bit of contact sets Jason's nerves on fire. He sucks in a breath.

“Why, never in all my years,” he says, affecting a fake Southern belle accent. “I've been saving myself for a nice husband.”

Roman seems less than amused. “Won't find that here, I'm afraid,” he says flatly. “But you're in luck. A caring father is the next best thing, right?”

Jesus Christ. Jason actually has to bury his face in the comforter to avoid making a sound. This isn't fair. Roman should _not_ be able to get under his skin with only a few words; definitely not words like that. And when he chuckles, the vibrations shouldn't go straight to Jason's dick.

He hears the squeak of leather, then something hovering by his face. Roman says, “Look,” and when Jason peeks out, he sees an ungloved hand.

“Poor boy. I'm teasing you too much, aren't I?” He reaches out to grab Jason by the chin, tugging until half his face is visible again. “C'mon. Open that pretty mouth for daddy.”

“You are a huge fucking pervert,” Jason says, and he's stunned by how breathless his own voice is. “I mean, I always figured that you were, but seeing it in action is kinda blowing my mind.”

“Don't act like you aren't complicit in this,” Roman says, and Jason can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Like you haven't been trying my patience this whole time. You almost came in your pants just from sucking me off; don't play innocent.”

“Yeah, about that? I have some complaints,” Jason says, and he becomes vaguely aware that he's talking just to talk, as if by being chatty enough, he can make this whole thing less weird than it is. “First, who comes in someone's mouth without warning them first? Not very classy. Second, you never returned the favor—”

“Oh, shut up,” Roman says, at the same time he shoves two fingers into Jason's mouth. Jason makes a noise around them, salivating as Roman starts to work them in and out. “You sure seemed to be in a hurry to get out of there. Were you worried, is that it? About how far I might go?”

Jason couldn't answer even if he wanted to, but Roman is right. Even now, his heart is pounding at the thought of what they're doing. He doesn't like being vulnerable in front of people, especially not when those people are murderous scumbags like Black Mask. If he does this, there's no going back, he knows that.

Then again, he already crossed the threshold from partnership to something else the second he sucked Roman's cock into his mouth, didn't he?

Jesus, his head hurts. He doesn't want to _think,_ he just wants to feel, and luckily, Roman's pace increases, fucking his mouth even faster with those fingers.

“Like I said: cute. You talk a big game, but at the end of the day, you're still a snot-nosed kid.” He presses down against Jason's tongue until he's forced to open his mouth, and then it becomes much harder to muffle any noises. His fingers keep moving in and out, and he can't stop thinking of how they'd feel somewhere else. “But that's okay. That's what I'm here for. C'mon, open those legs up...”

Roman nudges a knee between Jason's legs, forcing him to spread them as much as he can with his pants bunched up around his thighs. He thinks _this is really happening,_ and then Roman's fingers are withdrawing from his mouth and smearing saliva over his hole, and it's cool and wet and one starts to press inside him _ohgod_ —

He's whining before he realizes it, high-pitched and breathless, and the hand that isn't pinned down clenches down on the comforter like a lifeline. Roman isn't gentle. He shoves his finger in as far as it'll go, and then he starts to move it in and out, so rough that Jason's hips rock back and forth with every thrust. It's _deep,_ and it's purposeful, and Jason's never felt anything like it.

“There you go,” Roman says, and Jason takes pleasure in the fact that his voice is a little breathier now than it was before. “Good boy. Knew you could make noise for me.”

Jason doesn't want to make noise, but every time that finger shoves him forward, he lets out a little “ _ah,_ ” and it's all he can do to make sure that's the only sound coming out of his mouth. But then Roman presses in another finger without warning, and Jason's brow furrows, mouth dropping open in a silent scream. He stays frozen like that for about three seconds, and then it's all too much. He lets out a long, whining moan, just as pained as it is pleasured.

“J-Jesus _Christ,_ Roman, tha-that's—” He grits his teeth, willing his voice to stop shaking, but it's trembling as much as his legs are. “Ohmygod. Can you— _Fuck,_ can you slow down for one goddamned second?!”

“Can't take it?” Roman asks, swirling his fingers in a way that hits a whole new spot inside of Jason he never knew existed. Jason rocks up on his toes, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and it still hurts, but god, he never wants it to _end._

“Oh my fuck fuck fuck—” Jason murmurs, almost _sobs_ when those fingers twist and rock and hit that spot again. “Just— Just— G-give me a— Roman. _Roman!_ Daddy—!”

He doesn't know why he said it, why _now._ He doesn't know why it made his cock throb the way it did, doesn't want to think about the implications, because now he can't pretend he was only joking before, Roman's fingers are in his ass and he _had_ to feel the way it affected Jason just to say that one word. He just has to take solace in the way it makes Roman's movements stutter, in how he can hear him curse under his breath the way he did when Jason sucked him off, right before he came.

“Christ, kid,” he says, as soon as he stops swearing. He pulls his fingers out, which is good, because they were starting to dry out and leave Jason with more pain than pleasure. Jason can hear a drawer open, can hear Roman fumble with something just outside his line of view, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what he might be looking for.

He licks his lips and summons up enough control over himself for one more taunt. “Lube in the sock drawer? Called it. You're so—”

But he never gets to tell Roman what he is, because Roman presses the slicked-up head of his cock against his ass. He shivers from his head to his toes, and his hips rock back without his say-so.

“Liked you way more when you were screaming my name,” Roman says, and he starts to press his cock in.

It's big. _Way_ bigger than two fingers, at least, and while it's a lot wetter than those fingers, that doesn't help much. Jason presses his face into the bed sheets, pulling his hips away, but Roman just bears down on him, not letting him set his own pace.

“God, god, wait,” Jason says, tugging at the covers, trying to wrench his other arm from Roman's hold. “C'mon. _Roman—_ Nngh. Roman!”

“There we go,” Roman says, voice low and gravelly and still way too fucking attractive. Jason thinks of all the ways he could tear the bastard's throat out while Roman works himself, inch by inch, into his ass. “Just like that. Good boy. You keep saying daddy's name like that.”

Jason sobs, open-mouthed, against the blanket, so full, and fuck, Roman just keeps going. Despite it all, his cock is still throbbing, and he thinks he's harder than he's ever been in his fucking _life._

“I can't, I can't,” he says, overheated to his core, tears and snot and spit wetting the bed under his face. “ _Mmm._ I- I- R-Roman, _please...!_ ”

“That's it,” Roman says, beginning to rock his hips, one hand set on Jason's waist. “Beg me. That's what I like to hear.”

Jason hates him. He absolutely fucking _hates_ him. He wants to vomit, but he still squirms in an attempt to get any sort of contact against his aching cock. He can't tell how he feels about this, wishes he could just have five seconds to _think,_ but Roman is cruel and terrible and won't give him even that much. So Jason sobs and pouts and yelps, twitching with pleasure-pain every time Roman shoves a little deeper inside him.

“I can't— I can't— It's too— _Roman,_ ” he breathes, and he relaxes just long enough for Roman to finally bottom out.

“You can,” Roman says, running a hand over the sweat-drenched small of his back. “Look at this...”

He stops moving, and before Jason can think, he's rocking his hips back, craving more of that sensation. He feels aghast, betrayed by his own body, and Roman chuckles above him, starting up a rhythm again.

“Look. You want this,” he says, and Jason hates that he agrees. “So stop whining.”

Jason emphatically does _not_ stop whining.

“S-sick,” he says, “you're sick, you're s-so fucking sick,” and he's not sure which one of them he's talking about.

Roman speeds up, changes his angle, and then Jason really is screaming, clawing the bed so hard that the fitted sheet pops off of one corner of the mattress. He rocks back more pointedly, and it still hurts, so deep and aching that he feels it up in his stomach, but it's hot and it's wet and the sound of their bodies slapping together has him intoxicated.

He's drooling on the bed, eyes unfocused, and he's not sure if it's sweat or lube or precum he can feel dripping down his cock. He's never felt anything so intense, and it doesn't help that Roman keeps muttering mind-numbingly filthy things to him in that low, gritty voice of his.

“Wanted this for a while, haven't you? Someone to put you in your place. Knew it right from the— _ngh—_ moment we met, you'd shut up as soon as you got a cock in you. All you little brats ever want.”

“Shhh-shut up,” Jason drawls, trying as hard as he can to speak between helpless moans. “O-old man— _Ah!_ A-always t-talkin'... like you're— hot shit... _Mmm!_ ”

“Respect your fucking elders,” Roman says, digging his nails into Jason's side. “Stop pretending. You're a little slut, aren't you? Say it. You're daddy's little slut.”

“N-not a—” Jason starts, but then Roman's hand comes down to smack his ass. It stings, and god, that cock of his is so _deep,_ and he can't take it any more, he can't, he whines and squirms and reaches back with his free arm to claw at Roman's waist. “— _slut!_ I'm a slut. Oh my _god._ Just fucking _fuck me_ you old fffucking— Oh shit yeah, just like that. Just like that, daddy, _please,_ don't stop, don't stop don't stop don't _stop,_ ungh—”

The words pour out like water from a broken dam, and he gives himself over to pleasure entirely. Another two strokes, and he's coming all over Roman's expensive comforter without ever being touched. He twitches and bucks and squirms, and Roman just keeps _going,_ spitting out vulgarities like they're the only words he knows. Just when Jason thinks he can't take it any more, when he's sobbing and on the verge of passing out due to overstimulation, Roman slows down, filling him up with a few more long, pointed thrusts.

Neither of them can do much more than try to catch their breaths for the next few minutes. When Roman finally releases his arm, he can't feel it, pins and needles weighing it down. Lube and cum run hot and wet down his thighs, and the stench of sex is so thick in the air that Jason can taste it in the back of his throat.

It feels like forever before he can finally speak again. He rests half-slumped against his bed, snuggling there with his eyes closed.

“Just so you know, I'm keeping the watch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I broke a several-year-long unofficial fanfic hiatus with this. wowzers. let me know what you think!


	2. Pointed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason decides to get a little more overt with his flirting. It takes its toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise here's another one
> 
> honestly idk where in Rebirth this takes place at this point, the timelines probably don't match up but you can just pretend it works because shh it's porn it's fine
> 
> disclaimer: Jason and Roman are stupid fuckboys who should not be used as role models for real-life BDSM. they are so dumb. don't be dumb.
> 
> and I'd like to thank everyone who left kudos and wonderful reviews on the last chapter! you guys really inspired me to keep going. seeing how many people enjoyed it reminds me why I started writing fanfic in the first place! so hopefully there'll be more where this came from. c:

He sells the watch.

It's gaudy and useless and feels too heavy on his wrist; it takes less than a full day for him to get sick of it. When he takes it off, he can still see faint red indents in his skin from where it pressed down during his and Roman's “excursion.”

He catches himself looking at them too often, and when they heal, he trails his fingers over the places where they used to be. He thinks he really must be sick.

But otherwise, things carry on as usual. In front of their men, they're still Black Mask and Red Hood, crime boss and his would-be heir. (Sometimes Roman calls him “son.” He doesn't say it any differently than normal, but the bastard knows damn well what he's doing.) They chat and plot and have breakfast together, though Jason never stops feeling out-of-place in the multi-million dollar high rise.

He continues working on his own schemes, of course. He's not stupid enough to get caught up in sentiment after a fuck; Black Mask is still his enemy, his mark, even if the thought of him occasionally summons up a few X-rated images now. If anything, this might work in his favor. He can play daddy's little prince, and getting the proof he needs to incriminate Roman will be easier than ever.

Ha. If only it'd be that easy.

Still, he tells himself it's worth a go. _Just playing a role,_ he thinks to himself, when he meets Roman's eyes from across the table and presses his lips to a wine glass that feels too delicate for his hands. And when Roman slings a friendly arm around his shoulders, Jason presses against his side a little too closely, because he has to keep up the act. Sometimes, he even does it in front of their men, feels their eyes on him through their ridiculous masks. His heart races the fastest then, like he's doing something really filthy. He wonders often when he became such a fucking pervert.

Those thoughts rise to a fever pitch when he's snooping around Roman's room one day. He never bothers to leave the door locked, because he isn't stupid enough to leave anything incriminating in there. And yet Jason still goes through everything, in the hopes that maybe he'll get lucky.

He doesn't. But he does take the bottle of lube out of the sock drawer. It sits buried in his own for a few nights before he finally gives in to the gnawing urge in the back of his mind and puts it to use. He fucks himself with his fingers and gnaws at the inside of his elbow, muffling his moans when he comes.

Yeah. He's a grade-A, pasteurized, farm fresh freak.

* * *

 

So he's got a little bit of a problem. A week and a few generous tablespoons of lube later, he can admit that. Not out loud, of course, but under his breath, when he lies sticky and exhausted in his bed, visions of Roman still lingering in his mind's eye.

It's not _his_ fault the pushy fuck made him realize he likes anal. Really, this whole mess is Roman's fault. He wouldn't even be here if not for his little techno-organic crime spree. So why should he be the only one to suffer? It's that question that re-energizes Jason, and he doubles down on his efforts to drag Roman kicking and screaming down with him. Go big or go home, right?

So he starts sitting a little too close to Black Mask on the couch when the team meets up in his lounge. And he drinks from his wineglass sometimes, letting his fingers brush Roman's when he tilts the crystal toward his lips. He finds that the “familial” terms of endearment spill out before he has much of a chance to think them over at all.

“Black Mask has been like a father to me,” he announces to the crew one day, with Roman looking on nearby. “He has a stern hand, but I know he's just doing what's best for me. For all of us.”

“Lookin' good, pops,” he tells Roman when he's straightening his tie before a meeting. He does it when they're with company, and feels the older man stiffen up under his ministrations. He offers up a smirk before walking away.

Then on another occasion, when he's feeling particularly feisty — agitated at getting nowhere with the case, annoyed that Black Mask's bumbling crew won't leave him alone, horny a-goddamned-gain — he lets slip a, “Maybe you should spank me.” He doesn't even remember what they'd been ribbing each other about.

“Maybe I should,” Roman says, expressionless with his mask on, as conversationally as if he'd just brought up the weather.

People stare. Jason's ears go red. He concedes that he lost this time, and retires early so he can jerk himself off with his pilfered lube.

* * *

 

“I know you took it,” Roman says one evening, in the doorway of Jason's bedroom.

Jason's mind races, trying to think of all the things that could possibly mean. Does he know about the cure? The money he got from shucking the watch? But all he says is, “Jesus, dude, you have _got_ to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

Roman chuckles. “It's okay that you did. But you could've bought your own if you wanted some so bad. I'd have gladly supplied the funds.”

“I feel like we're on two totally different pages.” Jason kicks his feet up onto his bed, crossing one leg over the other. “Me, talking about having my privacy violated time and time again. And you, talking about... whatever it is you're talking about. Seriously, help me out, here.”

“Red.” The tone is so no-nonsense that it almost gives Jason flashbacks to a cave and a cowl. He pushes those thoughts out of his mind and clamps his lips shut. “You don't have to put up a front with me like this. If you want to spend another night in my bed, you need only ask.”

Oh.

Jason swallows.

“Technically, I wasn't _on_ your bed,” he says, eternally impressed with how nonchalant he can make himself sound. “I was sorta half-on, half-off. You know, you're really not all that accommodating? Kinda selfish, actually...”

The entire time he speaks, Roman stalks closer, until he's eventually standing at the foot of Jason's bed. He feels like a slab of meat under Roman's gaze, and he can't even see his eyes. What a crock.

“Didn't think you minded,” he says, all calm and cool in a way that makes Jason hate him.

“Yeah, well, both my heads don't always agree,” Jason says with a shrug. “You should listen to the one that can talk, you gigantic douchebag.”

Despite his words, there's no venom in his tone. He almost sounds impressed with how shitty Roman can be.

“My my. You've still got a rebellious streak, don't you?” Roman asks. He lifts his hands to fiddle with first one glove, then the other. Jason looks at the leather pulled taut around his fingers. “That's good. I like a bit of fire in my proteges.”

“Was there a reason you came slinking into my room, or did you just feel the urge to get creepy on me again?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me out with something.” Jason arches a brow, but says nothing, so Roman continues on. “I want to tie you up and fuck you. Think you could manage that?”

Jason has got to hand it to the guy: he knows exactly what to say to leave someone speechless. Feeling like his balance has just been irreparably thrown off, he gapes, blinking a few times as if to try and clear this Roman-shaped wet dream from his vision.

No dice. He's the real deal. Jason scoffs.

“Begging your freakin' pardon?”

“It's a simple request.” Roman shrugs, letting his hands drop to his sides. He slides them into his pockets; Jason doesn't let the action go unnoticed. “You seemed so thrilled to be held down last time, I figured you wouldn't mind giving this a try.”

Jason feels his cheeks redden against his will, curses inwardly at his own body's betrayal. “Whoa, first? The 'thrill' wasn't from being held down. Cramped me up for hours. Second, I dig sexual confidence and everything, but this is just a little over the top, even for you. Gonna ask me to sign a sex contract before we get started, too?”

“You read too many terrible smut novels,” Roman says. Jason opens his mouth to object, but Roman talks over him. “I just thought I'd try to be nice and give you the option. One of these days, you're going to shoot off that mouth again, and I may not be able to control myself. I'd hate for something to happen in front of our men.”

Jason narrows his eyes. Is that a threat? He wants to be mad, to be furious at this asshole's presumptuousness, but...

God fucking damn it. The mere idea is getting him hard.

He licks his lips and swallows, mouth suddenly far too dry. “Knew you were a gentleman.”

“That I am.” Jason can _hear_ the smile from under his mask. “So, how about it? I am a busy man, and if you don't like my offer, I can squeeze someone else into this time slot...”

“Oh, please. Spare me the businessman mumbo-jumbo.” Jason rolls his eyes openly, perhaps a bit too dramatically. “I'm not gonna be your pre-meeting quickie. You take your time and fuck me right, or else no deal.”

There's a pause. “Is that a yes?”

Jason takes about 3.5 seconds to wonder what the fuck he keeps getting himself into, and replies, “Dunno. D'you need a second to clear your schedule?”

Roman chuckles and places a knee onto the bed, shaking his head in amusement. “Never for you, my boy.”

It throws him off so completely that Jason doesn't see Roman's hands leave his pockets until he has him by the wrists. He bucks, but it's not enough to throw Roman off, and in a second, his hands are cuffed to the headboard. He tugs at them experimentally, sucking in a breath when they bite into his flesh.

“You know I could be out of these in, like, 30 seconds, right?” he asks.

“I know,” Roman says. “But you won't. I'm not willing to compromise on this part.”

“Freak,” Jason breathes, but he doesn't try to pick the locks.

Roman chuckles again, and Jason hates how much he's beginning to like that sound. It's deep and it's low and the vibrations go straight to his cock, which Roman is now palming through his pants.

“I think you could shape up to be a great sub,” Roman says, still casual. “An uppity one, but some people like that.”

“People like you?” Jason asks, trying his best to keep his hips still.

Roman drags a thumb down the line of his now fully-hard cock, and Jason's head lulls to the side.

“Yes,” he says, “people like me.”

He's so fucking smug. Jason can't stand it. He wanted Roman to lose his cool, but not like _this._ And with his hands bound, he feels like there isn't much he can do to turn the situation back in his favor. All he has are his wits, his voice, and his legs. The latter spread, and he urges Roman forward with an ankle at his back.

“So, what would an 'uppity sub' say right about now?” he asks. “'Cause I feel like I nailed it the first time around. I can go for broke, though. This tender stuff is nice and all, but I was kinda hoping for something with a little more bite to it. You're not getting soft on me, are you, old man?”

“Bite, huh?” Roman pulls his hand away, and Jason almost groans. “...I think I can manage that.”

Then he's unzipping the mask near his mouth, and when he lowers his head, Jason realizes he should watch how literally his taunts can be taken. Roman's teeth dig into the sensitive spot between his ear and his neck — just teeth, no lips — the sides of the zipper scratching against his skin.

“OW, fuck!” Jason curses. “Goin' all vampire on me. Thi-this really is a teen romance novel, isn't it?”

Roman just keeps biting until he can feel the telltale welling of blood around his teeth, then a tongue snakes out to lap it up. It feels so intimate, so unspeakably _wrong_ when Roman hardly ever shows his mouth, and it leaves Jason sucking in shallow breaths and curling his toes. He doesn't even realize he's been tugging at his restraints until Roman pulls away and he can go slack again.

As soon as it starts, it's over, Roman sitting up and zipping his mask closed again. Saliva and blood cool on Jason's skin, leaving him aroused and uncomfortably clammy.

“That work for you?” Roman asks, and Jason summons up enough willpower to shrug.

“Gettin' there.”

“Good.” Roman runs his hands down Jason's sides, eliciting a shiver. He rests them at his hips, cool leather on hot skin where his shirt has ridden up. “Why don't you tell me what else you want? I'm sure you've had plenty of time to mull it over.”

Jason doesn't miss that implication, and he glares, but truth be told, Roman is right. He's been the subject of all of his fantasies for the past few weeks. The trouble is, when faced with the reality, he has no idea where to start.

“Truth be told,” he says after a moment, “I was thinking of riding you.”

Roman chuckles again, tracing circular patterns into his hips with the pads of his thumbs. “That so? Be a good boy for me, and maybe I'll allow it.”

“Oh, you'll _allow_ it, good,” Jason says. “Glad you're one of those _nice_ bondage-loving pervs.”

“You should see what I do to the ones I don't like,” Roman says.

Jason's heart thuds loudly in his ears. He looks around at all his possible exits. He has at least three guns hidden in this room alone.

He says, “Show me.”

He can feel Roman's eyes raking over him. He tries to imagine that they've gone wide under his mask.

“While I admire your spirit, I don't want to incapacitate you.” Jason laughs. Roman keeps talking over him. “But if you'd like, I can give you a little preview.”

“It takes more than some dick to mess me up,” he says. He hears Roman start to contradict him, so he presses on, “I've been practicing since last time. You caught me off-guard. Like I said, you're not the most caring guy to roll around in the hay with.”

Roman shrugs. “If you insist.”

He slides off the bed, and for a second, Jason wonders if he's going to just leave him here. But all Roman does is start to slowly, methodically take off his clothes. His shoes are first, followed by his gloves, his tie, his belt, and then finally, his suit jacket. He unbuttons the cuffs on his white dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbow. Jason can spot the crisscross of scars under downy hair, fair fairer than he would've imagined. They look like the kind you'd get from knife fights, which shocks him. He never took Roman for much of a hands-on guy.

“Where'd you put it?” he asks, snapping Jason out of his reverie.

“Wha...?”

“The lube,” Roman says. He jabs two fingers toward the mesh of his mask. “My eyes are up here.”

“Ha ha.” Jason jerks his head toward his bedside table. “In there.”

“And _I'm_ the predictable one.”

Jason mutters, “You asked,” but there's a lack of any real bite to it. He's too busy watching the curve of Roman's back as he opens the drawer, shifting around one of Jason's guns before he comes upon what he's looking for.

“Wow, you've been busy,” he says, and Jason glares off to the side when Roman dangles the much emptier bottle of lube by his face.

“Shut up.”

“Aww, c'mon, Red,” he says. “Not getting scared on me, are you?”

No. Truth be told, Jason is trying to tamper down his own arousal. His head keeps swimming with images of what Roman might do to him, of how much more intense it might be than the last time. And the last time _was_ intense. Something about having a cock shoved up your ass has that effect.

“Bored, actually,” he says, feigning a yawn. “That what you do to your other subs? Bore them to death?”

“Are you admitting you're one of my subs?”

Jason opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and wags a finger at Roman. “Touche.”

Roman puts the bottle on top of the bedside table and climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between Jason's still-spread legs. He tries to close them just to be contrary, but Roman yanks them open. He bites down on his lip to keep himself from gasping.

“I thought about gagging you,” Roman says as he starts to undo Jason's pants, “but you're just so much fun when you talk. When you're not getting on my nerves, that is.”

“That's a shame, 'cuz I love getting on your nerves,” Jason says. Roman yanks his pants and underwear down a few inches, and he talks over the flood of arousal that hits him when he's bare. “My favorite part of the day. Say, did you ever scrub that jizz out of your wineglass? Or did you just drink it like that? Bet you did, you're a fucking lunati— _Ohh._ ”

How did he not notice Roman unzipping his mask and leaning down? Because now that face is between his legs, leather squeaking between his thighs, pants still gathered around his knees. Roman's hands are digging into his hips, lifting them up, while his tongue prods around over Jason's hole. That feeling of teeth and zippers and no lips is weird as hell, like he's fucking a mannequin or a skeleton, but when Roman's tongue shoves inside of him, he can't think of anything but how fucking good it feels.

“J-Jesus Christ, that's— Oh, shit.” Jason's head flops back against the pillows, and he blinks blearily up at the canopy above his bed. “That's new.”

Roman doesn't respond, of course. He just keeps licking and prodding and _fucking_ Jason with his tongue, in and out, hot and wet, until Jason's squirming and flushed underneath him. His legs ache from being held up in the air for so long, but his dick is so hard that he can feel it twitch with his pulse.

His breath turns shallow, and he grinds his hips forward, eventually losing his battle against his own voice box. He whines and moans and growls, tugging against his bindings until he can feel metal cut into his skin.

Finally, Roman comes up for air, sliding a finger in at the same time he pulls his tongue out. He immediately starts thrusting it in and out, giving Jason no respite.

“You— You know— You can use lube when... when you finger someone, too,” Jason says, red from his nose to his ears.

“I know,” Roman replies. “I've just been wanting to do that for a while.”

Jason laughs, a little bit of a manic edge to it. He lets his head roll to the side, and grins up at Roman, eyes half-lidded. “You're still being so fuckin' gentle. Afraid you'll hurt your favorite little boy?”

“No, not at all,” Roman says. “I just hate to rush.”

Jason opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Roman's free hand shoots out to pin him down by the neck. At the same time, he adds two more fingers, and Jason curses himself through the sting. Him and his big mouth.

The neck really is the most alarming part, though. Roman's palm presses down against his throat, cutting off his air, and struggle as he might, his grip won't waver. Jason realizes very belatedly that he never came up with a safe word.

_Good fuckin' going,_ he tells himself. _They're gonna find you blue in the face with your pants down. Preferred the explosion, honestly._

“Did you know,” Roman starts, like he's not choking the life out of Jason, “that a loss of oxygen can intensify arousal?”

_Well, I wasn't reborn yesterday,_ Jason thinks irritably, but he can't say anything. Then Roman's fingers curve up, rubbing against that spot inside him, and stars dance around the edges of his vision. He goes to gasp, but he can't, and it's the weirdest fucking feeling in the world.

No, scratch that: the way his cock twitches and his stomach lurches when he finds he can't breathe is the actual weirdest.

Roman is merciless, pounding against his prostate with all the force of his weight behind the assault. Jason squirms, kicking out weakly, his mouth hanging open until he can feel drool drip down the side of his face. Above him, Roman looks impassive as ever, like he couldn't care whether Jason lives or dies or comes or not.

And then, when he feels like he's about to pass out, the pressure at his throat lifts. He gasps for air, kicking his legs with renewed force, but Roman's other hand doesn't let up at all. From his position, all he can do is kick the air on either side of Roman's body.

“I can feel you twitch,” Roman says, those pearly white teeth still on full display under his mask. “Feels good, doesn't it? I can't wait to be inside you.”

“Th-this is,” Jason starts, voice hoarse and raspy, “exactly what— I mean. Y-You are. The _least_ considerate dude. I've— nngh, ever slept with.”

“You'll get used to it,” Roman says.

Jason considers using this brief moment of respite to ask for a safe word.

He doesn't.

Then it's too late, Roman clamping down on his throat again. He changes the angle of his thrusts, and, _Jesus Christ,_ Jason feels him start to add a fourth finger. It's way too much, and there's no way his ass is wet enough for that, but every slide and scrape sends his head spinning. He doesn't know if it's the lack of oxygen or if he really is just a masochist, but it's driving him insane. He wants to _moan,_ wants to _scream,_ wants to curse Roman's name to fucking Hell where he belongs, but all he can do is gape, tongue hanging out of his mouth, too heavy for him to move.

The next time he's allowed to breathe, Roman's other hand stops moving, and he shifts back to look down between Jason's legs. Jason's too busy coughing to care.

“Wow. Look at this,” Roman says, as if that's something Jason can actually do. He bears down with all four of his fingers, like he's stretching Jason open. It hurts, and he groans, but he doesn't object. “You are _full._ How's that feel? Tell daddy.”

Jason hates that it still makes his cock twitch, hates that there's no way Roman doesn't see it. “Feels like you shoved your hand up my ass and then choked me.”

“You have such a way with words,” Roman says. He slides his fingers out, and Jason can finally let out a breath in relief. “If this is too much for you, I'm afraid—”

“It isn't.” Jason says it so quickly that he surprises himself. “Anything you're thinking of throwing at me... I can take it.”

His ass and his throat both ache, and his wrists and arms are beginning to as well, but he's still blindingly hard. He knows full well that this isn't safe. That even if he tries to escape, he's at a disadvantage. Maybe that's why he's so turned on. He's always gotten excited at the prospect of leaping headfirst into something dangerous. Not _this_ excited, but there's a first time for everything, isn't there?

“Still so determined to prove yourself,” Roman says with a slap of Jason's ass. “That's good. Makes things fun for me. Almost like a challenge. Now, let's see...”

He slides open the drawer of Jason's bedside table, and he starts to interject with, “Getting senile on me? You already took it—”

What Roman pulls out isn't lube, but Jason's pistol. He clamps his lips together and swallows.

“Ah.”

“Mhm,” Roman says, pointing it at his face. “Open your mouth.”

Jason looks down at it, all cool metal and hard lines, a Beretta 92 that fits snug in his hand. It doesn't belong in Roman's. It shouldn't be pointing at its owner. He licks and then bites his lower lip.

“That thing's loaded,” he says.

“I know.”

Jason runs his options for exit back through his mind. If he dislocates his thumb, he doesn't have to pick the lock on the handcuffs. He could disarm Roman and get to his other hidden pistol in five seconds flat. He could end this now, if he really wanted to.

He opens his mouth.

“Good boy.” Roman presses the gun inside, knocking against Jason's teeth as he goes. It's cool and it's big and it's angled all the wrong ways, and one errant slip of Roman's finger will kill him (again). It makes his heart race for all the wrong reasons. He bobs his head forward, lifting his hips to demand attention.

Roman grins — at least, he thinks it's a grin, but he can never tell with that mouth of his — and starts to pump the gun in and out, a crude mockery of the first time they ever got together. Jason takes it like a champ, even if every unintentional knock against his teeth sends pain radiating through his skull.

“You know,” Roman says, and Jason hears another zipper being undone, “I might change my mind about keeping you gagged. This is nice.”

Just to be difficult, Jason murmurs around the barrel of the gun. It sounds suspiciously like a slurred version of, “You can go fuck yourself.”

“Sorry, didn't catch that,” Roman says, reaching over to grab the lube with his free hand. Jason watches as well as he can from his position, head immobile under the insistent thrusting of his own gun.

Jason rolls his eyes. A second later, he feels Roman's slicked-up cock sliding over his hole, and he moans despite himself.

“Since you're a little tied up, I think I'll tell you all about the view I've got right now,” Roman says, teasing him with just the head of his cock. “Red Hood is a good name for you; you get so red whenever I touch you. Look at that face. You're blushing. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a virgin.

“You're good at what you do, though. You like licking your gun, don't you? I'd love to give you something nice and warm to suck on. I think I might let you wear my necktie if I did that. Yank it nice and tight, watch you go blue instead.”

It's not normal to get turned on at the thought of being asphyxiated by a crime lord, is it? Jason feels like it's not, but here he is, leaking precum onto his stomach, bobbing his head despite himself to the rhythm Roman's set.

This is a new kind of overwhelming, different from how he felt last time. Last time, it was all physical, too much too soon, fingers and a cock impaling him in ways he never thought could feel so good. Now, it's more mental, Jason drunk on the idea of being tied up and held captive with his own weapons. You'd think someone who's died once before would be a little less touch-and-go with their own life, and yet here he is, giving a blowjob to a deadly firearm.

He bets Dick never does anything this interesting on undercover missions.

“Jason,” Roman says, and then he's pulling the gun out, letting it drag over Jason's lower lip as it goes. “You're right. I'm so inconsiderate, aren't I? Tell me, what do _you_ want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, taste of metal thick in his mouth. “Right the fuck now. I can feel how hard you are, too, pops.” He grinds his ass against Roman's cock to emphasize his point. “You're gonna put that fuckin' prick in my ass, and you're gonna fuck me 'til I come. Stop fucking _waiting._ You piece of—”

Roman cuts him off by slamming the gun down across his jaw. Jason's head whips to the side, and immediately, he tastes blood. He spits out a big, thick wad of it, but more keeps coming, oozing out onto the pillows.

“Do _not_ give me orders,” he says, “or I'll shove this up your ass instead.”

Jason feels the press of the gun barrel against his temple, and doesn't have to ask what he means by that. He shivers.

It's not from fear.

“...Daddy,” he tries, rolling his tongue around inside his burning mouth. He spits more out, quite a sight, he's sure; he can feel splatters of blood and spit all down one side of his face. “Daddy. C'mon. You wanna give me what I want, don't you? Thought I was a good boy.”

He turns until he's face-to-face with the gun again. He keeps his eyes locked on Roman's mask, then presses a bloody kiss to the barrel. There's a hardness in his gaze that says _don't think I'm rolling over for you,_ but he's so fucking turned on at this point that he doesn't want to keep up the tough guy act for too much longer. It gets exhausting being such a douche all the time.

“Oh, Red,” Roman sighs, letting Jason drag his lips up and down the barrel. “What am I going to do with you? You can never decide if you want to obey me or not.”

_I don't,_ Jason thinks. If nothing else, he can always hold on to his defiant thoughts.

“But, well.” Roman taps Jason's sore cheek with the gun. He can't stop himself from wincing, but he doesn't make a sound. “Truth be told, I've been wanting to fuck you for quite a while now. You're lucky I fit so well in you; I'd never let you talk to me like that, otherwise.”

Jason smirks, even though it hurts his face. “About time. How many times does a guy gotta make passes before he gets fucked around here?”

“Oh, about that,” Roman says, and he starts to slide his cock in, firm and steady. “We're gonna have a talk later about your conduct in front of my men.”

“Ye-ah?” Jason drawls, focusing on relaxing his muscles. It still stings, but he really has had a lot of practice since last time. Now, it's much easier for Roman to bottom out. He sucks in a breath, and with a strained voice, says, “Y-you never did spank me... Ah... 'Was kinda disappointed.”

“I know,” Roman says. “That's why I didn't do it.”

Jason goes to say “You bastard,” but Roman chooses that moment to start rocking his hips, and the words die on the crest of a moan. Shit. Jason's sure he does that on purpose.

But he can't complain. Not now, not when he's _finally_ getting what he wanted all this time. Like last time, Roman is fast and uncompromising, and Jason can tell by the desperation in his thrusts that he's more affected by all this than he's been letting on. He keeps the gun pressed to Jason's forehead for a while, but then it dips lower, and Jason eagerly opens his mouth to welcome it in.

It hurts and it's wrong and it's _fun,_ Jason's legs slung over Roman's shoulder, practically bent over double while the older man pounds into him. Every time the gun draws back far enough, he makes a sound, breathy and thick and desperate, the muzzle smeared red with his blood. He yanks at the handcuffs, and wonders if his wrists are bleeding, too. He can't help but think, with secret satisfaction, that he'll have more marks to covet once this is all over.

After a few minutes of panting and thrusting and cursing, Roman pulls the gun out and slams it none-too-gently on the bedside table. Jason hardly has time to turn his head and look before two strong hands wrap around his throat, cutting off his air once again.

From this angle, he notices that he can see Roman's scars up close. They're faint and white, disappearing up under his sleeves, like a map written with blades. He decides he's going to figure out where they're from later, but for now, he just admires them. Another sign reading “DANGER” blinking big and red with an arrow pointed toward Roman.

His vision starts to swim, and he raises his hands with the intent to claw at Roman's wrists ( _leave some more marks on him_ ), but the sharp jerk of the chain keeps him in place. Something about that limitation breaks him in the best way, and he screws his eyes shut, losing himself to pleasure. He's so _close,_ but Roman eases up and lets him breathe, and his body rejects the kindness.

“Back, haahh—” He turns his head, spits out more saliva than blood, and looks up at Roman through bleary eyes. “Put 'em back, ah, d-do it again...! Want it. Daddy, please—”

Roman hardly lets him finish before he squeezes again, filling Jason's head with that overbearing, buzzing static. He lets it happen, wants it to happen, feels like, at this moment, his neck is the most intimate part of his body. It's warm and Roman's hands shock him like an electric current, keeping him held down, keeping him grounded while at the same time letting him float. He lets Jason breathe twice more, never very much at a time, not even long enough for Jason to get his thoughts together and babble.

His lower body writhes and twists, but he leaves his upper body under Roman's control entirely. And then, soon enough, he feels the winding of a cord about to snap, and he's coming without making a single sound. His vision goes white and black at the same time, somehow, and he can't even move through the waves of pleasure that rock his whole body. He just has to sit there and surrender to it, let it wash over him and drown him, and it's the strangest and most wonderful thing he's ever felt, so terrifying and hot and sticky and _deep._

He thinks he must have blacked out for a second, because the next thing he knows, Roman is collapsing next to him, and he can feel something warm and wet leaking out of his hole. Every breath feels like fire, but he gulps them down like a lifeline — and that's what they are.

Roman's saying something, but Jason's ears are ringing, so he can't hear it. He becomes vaguely aware that his hands are free, but he doesn't have the strength to pull them down. Maybe he can just... stay here, like this, forever. That sounds nice.

“—kid. Hey. Kid!”

A slap to the unbruised side of his face snaps him out of it. He grumbles. Leave it to Roman to ruin his relaxation.

He tries to say something, he really does, but all that comes out is an indignant _hmph._ Roman sighs and shakes his head.

“Hey, spoiled brat. Wake up. You gotta get clean.”

Jason flips him the bird. Despite the aching in his body, he then flips _himself_ over, very pointedly smearing cum all over the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets Roman bought him. It'll go nice with the bloodstains, he thinks.

“You're impossible,” Roman sighs.

Jason smirks. He bats his eyelashes, marveling over how heavy they feel. There's a real yawn in his voice this time when he answers.

“That's why you like me.”

Roman doesn't deny it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint! I want to try some other DC pairings, too. sladin, or jaydick, or batjokes, or nygmobblepot, or some other batfam combinations. have anything you'd like to see? I'd love to hear suggestions in the comments!


	3. Encouraged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wants attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't listed as an in-progress work but I can't quit u, jayroman
> 
> I blame it entirely on all the people who keep writing awesome fics for this pair, you know who you are

Jason drains his third glass of fancy wine and wonders why he still bothers to come to Roman's parties. The only fun part is watching all the guys dressed in fancy suits try to pretend like it's totally normal to wear BDSM headgear 24/7. Sometimes he feels naked, being the only person whose face isn't covered, but he doesn't bother to wear the hood, because then he wouldn't be able to drink his boredom away.

Life is tough when you're the sanest man out of a band of gimpy freaks.

He snatches up another glass and watches Roman in the center of the room, taking up space on a stark-white couch by spreading his legs way more than he needs to. He looks like such a douchebag, lounging there in his crisp suit and his dumb mask, talking about god-knows-what. Probably bragging about how they're gonna own the city in due time.

 _Not if Red Hood's got anything to say about it,_ he thinks.

 _God, I can see his fucking dick through his pants,_ he thinks a moment after.

He really needs to have a talk with himself about what is and is not appropriate to think when looking at a scumbag crime lord.

It's distracting, though. The outline of Roman's cock isn't obvious unless you're looking for it, but Jason is a bit tipsy, and it's so much easier to think about sex than about plans when you're drinking on an empty stomach. Speaking of... He grabs a fistful of appetizers off a mask-clad waiter's tray the next time one walks close to him, stuffing them all in his face. It tastes light and fancy, like the kinda stuff Bruce used to serve at his galas.

He drinks more wine to rid himself of the taste once he swallows.

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the lack of progress being made, but Jason is antsy. From his place lingering near the edge of the room, he fidgets, tapping his foot and drumming his fingers against the wall. He tries to look anywhere but at Roman, but every conversation he hones in on is mind-numbingly idiotic. He listens to a pair of goons argue about whether or not wi-fi is considered a renewable resource for around 10 minutes before he finally forces himself to walk away, lest he give in to the temptation to blow his own brains out.

He considers making a beeline for the balcony, to clear his mind and get away from the chatter and Roman's shitty music. But the thought comes unbidden into his mind that he might see the Bat Signal shining out over the city if he looks up. Tonight, for whatever reason, he decides he doesn't want to see that.

Striding up like he hasn't a care in the world, he plops down on the couch next to Roman.

“Financially, it's better if we— Ah. Hello, Jason.”

Roman doesn't often use his name around his men, but then, Jason doesn't often show his face to them. It's not like there's anything out there for those idiots to find on him, anyway. He spreads his own legs, knee bumping up against Roman's own.

“'Sup.”

Roman studies him for a second, then goes back to talking to whichever fuckwad he's decided is important tonight. The easy dismissal grates on Jason's nerves, though he isn't sure why. He sucks down another mouthful of wine, then shimmies closer to Roman, leaning over him to place his glass down on the nearby coffee table. He's close enough for his breath to glide over Roman's neck, but that doesn't even warrant a sideways glance.

When he pulls back, his mouth is twisted into a sour frown. He starts fidgeting again, tapping his fingertips on his knee. His jeans are faded and thin at the knees, a veritable mess compared to Roman's pressed white slacks. No matter what their relationship is like, he takes pride in the fact that Roman still can't force him to wear a suit.

He must have zoned out, because when a hand wraps tight around his own, he didn't see it coming. He jumps, ready to defend himself, but it's just Roman who has him, staring at him through that bug-eyed mask of his. (It's not until a second later that he realizes how fucked up it is to be relieved that it's “just” Black Mask, criminal mastermind, with a hold on him.)

“That's enough of that, don't you think?” Roman asks. Jason focuses on how warm his hands are under the initial chill of his leather gloves. When he doesn't respond fast enough, Roman clarifies, “The tapping. It's a little distracting, my boy.”

Jason's chest does a funny thing at those words, “my boy,” and he pulls his hand out of Roman's grasp. He decides then that this is how he wants to spend his night: not being ignored. A smirk settles onto his face.

“Sorry, daddy,” he says, light enough to be a joke. That's always what it sounds like when they're in front of people. He smooths his palm over his jeans, settling into the back of the couch.

A couple people are staring. He thinks he likes it.

 

 

The night continues like that, with Jason interjecting here and there, either leaning over Roman to get his wine glass or “forgetting” not to fuss with his hands. That big, gloved palm settles over his hand a few more times, almost absently, until at last, it closes down on his hand and holds it there against his knee. Jason bites back a grin.

He's not a lightweight, but he drank enough to let a nice buzz settle over his mind, dulling his thoughts just enough that he can ignore the little voice in his head telling him to get it together. He hardly listens to that voice when he's sober, of course, but it's nice to shut it up that little bit more.

Roman's hand doesn't move, so Jason couldn't walk away even if he wanted to. He sticks by Roman's side — _his right hand man, literally,_ he thinks with a snicker — close enough to smell his cologne. It's woody and musky and mature, and Jason thinks he could get drunk off of that scent faster than any wine.

...Because wine isn't that strong, of course.

Of _course._

That doesn't mean he isn't going to try, though. He reaches for his glass again, stretching farther now that one hand is out of commission, only to have Roman snatch the glass away as soon as he gets close.

“I think you've had enough,” he says, and Jason nearly laughs.

“Seriously?” He can feel Roman's goons watching him, no doubt smirking underneath their masks at his misfortune. “Look, I know I called you daddy, but that doesn't mean you get to cut me off.”

“Maybe not,” Roman hums, “but it _is_ my alcohol. You could tear through a vintage like it was a keg if I let you. It's really not fair to the wine.”

“The _wine?_ ” Jason snorts. “Shit, I forgot it had feelings. You're right.” He turns his gaze to the glass, still in Roman's hand, just out of his reach. “Sorry, buddy. I'll appreciate you. I can change! —Really, dude, give it back.”

“Nah-uh.” Roman puts the glass on a side table, then stands up, pulling Jason with him via their still-linked hands. “As a matter of fact, I think it's time I put you to bed.”

Jason's face floods with red like an ink stain. _Put him to bed?_ Between the wording and the way his hand's being held, he feels like a petulant child. The mooks are _really_ looking at them, now, and he thinks he hears one snicker. He doesn't try to figure out who, though. His eyes are locked on Roman's mask.

Distantly, he wonders what it might be like to be bent over the table and disciplined right in front of everybody. A second later, he concludes that yeah, maybe he has had too much wine.

“Come on,” Roman says, tugging him along as he weaves toward the door. Jason opens his mouth to protest, but his head is foggy, so much so that he isn't sure he can blame it on the alcohol. This isn't what being shitfaced feels like. This is just the sort of effect Roman has on him.

The bastard.

He follows along mutely as Roman leads him down winding halls and through doors. Their hands are still linked, but he doesn't bother to pull away. On the elevator ride up to the penthouse, he allows himself to lean against Roman's shoulder, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

Roman only lets go when they get to the bedroom. He ushers Jason inside with a pat on his lower back, but Jason spins around (too fast), grabbing at Roman's sleeves to pull him closer.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait.”

Roman does.

“Are you...” Jason looks down, wonders why a bit of wine and some not-even-flirting has him so undone. If his drinks were spiked, he's gonna fucking strangle Roman. “Are you... gonna... go back down?”

“That was the plan.”

“Stay.”

Roman turns to him more fully, tilting his head. Jason feels scrutinized, small, uncertain. He forces himself to straighten his back, releasing Roman so he can run a hand through his hair.

“I... might puke,” he says. It's a lie based in truth. “Don't wanna get it all over the sheets. Not like last time.”

“It wasn't vomit last time, but I see your point,” Roman says. “I'll get you something. Didn't realize my boy was such a lightweight.”

Roman ruffles his hair, and god, there it is again. Those two stupid words that fill Jason with a pride that he's not sure he's entitled to. He's good at what he does, _great_ at it, but he shouldn't be genuinely happy to be complimented by a psychopath. Is he that fucking starved for affection? Jesus.

He makes his way to the bed, throwing off his shoes and jacket while he waits for Roman to come back. A quick glance down at himself shows that he's half-hard already. This, he thinks, has gotta be a new record. He flops onto his back and lets out a sigh.

Roman returns a minute later with an empty trashcan, placing it next to the four-poster.

“Here.”

“I was wrong.”

Jason imagines Roman quirking an eyebrow under his mask. “Hmm?”

“About the puking thing. I don't have to. Guess I just needed to lie down.”

“Brat,” Roman says. Jason's stomach clenches, not in a bad way. “Just like running me all around God's creation, don't you?”

Jason smiles. “Something like that.”

Their conversation lulls after that. Jason can feel Roman's eyes rake down over his body. He makes no move to try and obscure the growing bulge in his pants.

“...Is there something else you want?” he asks, after what feels like an eternity.

Jason licks his lips. “Yeah.”

“And what would that be?”

Jason raises a finger, motions for Roman to come closer. Roman braces a hand on the mattress, leans down, and Jason loops his arms around his neck. He nuzzles up against the part of his mask where Roman's ear is, and lowers his voice to little more than a husky whisper.

“...A Playstation 4.”

He hears Roman sigh.

“I didn't wanna get one at launch, since there are always so many bugs, you know? The new releases this season have really been tempting me, though. But my allowance ain't what it used to be, so I was hoping...”

“You're a wreck.” Roman pushes him away by his face. Jason huffs, swatting his hand away. “Goodnight, Jason.”

He gets about halfway to the door this time, when Jason calls, again, “Wait.”

Roman stops. Jason stares at his back, at the lines of his suit, an imposing silhouette near the foot of his bed.

Too far away.

“You don't really need to be down there with them, right?” he asks. Immediately, he hates how needy he sounds. “I listened to a few of 'em talk, and, not to question your authority or anything, but it ain't like they're gonna be talking 'off with his head' while you're gone.”

“You know,” Roman says, rounding on him, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “You don't need to do this every time.”

Jason tenses, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Do what?”

“This song and dance. I can tell what you need, Jason, sometimes before even you do.” He reaches out to cup Jason's cheek with one cool, gloved hand. For some reason, Jason lets him. “If you want my attention, all you have to do is ask.”

“Not your attention,” Jason mutters, “so much as your cock.”

Roman chuckles. “Fair enough.”

Jason grabs his wrist and tugs him onto the bed. Roman sets a knee between his legs, hovering above him, and it's too intimate. With speed and skill normally reserved for the battlefield, Jason takes him by the shoulder and flips them over. Roman's shocked sputtering brings a smile to his face.

“So,” he says, settling his legs on either side of Roman's waist. “I never did get to ride you like I wanted.”

Roman adjusts his tie, managing to look positively indignant even with his face obscured. “Such a needy boy. I'm beginning to think I spoil you.”

“I'd rather spoil myself.”

Jason leans down, taking the zipper at Roman's mouth between his teeth. He rolls his hips, pleased to feel Roman getting hard underneath him. Roman takes the time to remove his gloves, then runs his hands down Jason's sides, down even lower to cup his ass. He pulls him closer, and Jason muffles a sigh against the leather of his mask.

Already, this position is different. He feels in control physically, even if mentally he's not quite sure what's going on with himself. In his fantasies, this sort of thing is less overwhelming than being pinned down or tied up, but in reality, he can still feel his heart thudding in his chest.

His hands fumble with the buttons on Roman's suit. It's a three-piece, so there are far too many of the damn things, and he huffs audibly by the time he finally gets his vest open. Roman changes their rhythm, grinds up against him harder, and Jason's movements stall entirely. He moans, open-mouthed, against Roman's jaw, slicking the leather up with his breath.

Roman's hand dips down, presses against his hole through layers of clothes. “I hope you haven't run out of that lubricant you stole from me.”

Jason shudders, thinks back to long nights and slicked-up fingers and deep, shuddering orgasms. “Should still have some left.” Not much.

Roman withdraws his hands, though not before slapping him once on the ass. “Better get it now.”

Jason huffs, but secretly, he's thankful for the brief reprieve. It gives him a moment to let the fog clear from his mind. He leans over to dig through his bedside table, eventually pulling out the mostly-empty bottle. Roman chuckles.

“Shut up,” Jason tells him.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Hold this.” He hands the bottle to Roman, then hops off the bed, undoing his jeans. He has them about halfway down when Roman interrupts him.

“Leaving your shirt on?”

Jason pauses. Glancing over his shoulder, he says, “Strip tease costs extra.”

Roman chuckles. He hears the bed shift as he sits up, then feels the trail of fingers over his spine, hiking his shirt up. His breath catches in his throat.

“If that's the case, I'll do it myself.” A second hand joins the first, and Jason too-obediently raises his arms over his head, allowing it to be slipped off.

This is the first time, he realizes, he's taken his shirt off during their encounters. He's beginning to feel like every time leaves him more naked than before, and not just physically.

Roman's hands wrap around him and explore his chest while Jason finishes removing his pants. Long, warm fingers find his nipples, and Jason grunts when Roman pinches both of them hard.

“Come,” he says, dragging Jason back into bed with him. Jason can feel himself start to sweat already.

“You too,” he says, tugging at Roman's belt. He briefly entertains the idea of trying to tie Roman up with it, but he has a feeling that wouldn't go over well. Maybe he'll bring it up some other time.

He tugs the belt through its loops and tosses it away, then undoes Roman's slacks, yanking them and his underwear down a few inches. The sight of Roman's upright cock makes his mouth water, and before he can talk himself out of it, he's shimmying down the bed to take it into his mouth.

Roman's grunt is music to his ears.

“I missed that mouth of yours,” he says, tucking a strand of Jason's hair behind his ear. “Do you know how often I think about it?”

Jason pulls off his cock with a _pop,_ speaks with his lips against the spot just under its head. “More than you should,” he says, “dirty old man.”

Roman chuckles, loops one hand around the back of his head and uses the other to direct his cock through Jason's parted lips. “You're probably right.”

Jason bobs his head up and down, tongue pressed flat against the underside of Roman's dick. It stretches his jaw out almost painfully, but he likes the burn, grinding his hips down against the mattress while he works. He's still wearing his boxers, managing to feel overdressed even though Roman is the one with most of his clothes on.

The hand on the back of his head urges him to take that cock deeper and deeper, until eventually, he can feel it hitting the back of his throat. His eyes prickle with tears, but he doesn't gag, not once. He feels a burst of pride when Roman curses under his breath.

“Okay,” he says, voice strained in the way that Jason likes, “you're gonna have to stop that if you still want to ride me.”

Jason chuckles. He feels Roman's cock twitch in his throat. Tempting as it is to see how long he can keep this up, he pulls off, sucking down a few cool breaths.

“I must be getting good at this,” he says with a grin. “You losing it already?”

“Not at all,” Roman says, tugging him up by the arm. It's a harsh, painful tug, which only serves to get Jason more excited. “But the thought of you bouncing in my lap is too good to pass up, so I'd rather get going on that, if you don't mind.”

Jason flushes, biting his lip. While Roman yanks down his boxers, he grabs the bottle of lube that sits abandoned by the pillow. He shifts to slip his legs out of his underwear, letting Roman toss them off the side of the bed.

He should take the time to prepare himself, he knows, but he's been lowkey waiting for this all night, so he squeezes lube out directly onto Roman's cock. He hears Roman hiss, and he smirks, wrapping his hands around his shaft to spread the lube around.

He lines them up, pressing the slick head of Roman's dick against his hole. Roman settles his hands onto his hips, pressing down as Jason starts to descend.

He barely gets the entirety of the head inside himself when the stretch becomes too much. His mouth drops open, brow furrowed, and he tries to move down more, but a jolt of pain makes him stop.

“Hurt?” Roman asks.

“N-no,” Jason says hurriedly, “no. It's just...”

It's just that he didn't account for how much tighter his muscles would be when he's sitting up like this. He tries again to sink down, but this time, the pain makes his hips jerk so hard that Roman's cock slides out of him altogether. His cheeks burn with shame, and he struggles to play it off.

“Just wanna... pace myself,” he says, lining Roman's cock up again. “Enjoy it.”

Two seconds of silence from Roman, followed by an almost amused “Mhmm,” tells him his story isn't exactly convincing. Whatever.

He holds his breath, sinking down again, and this time he manages to get the head plus another inch inside himself. He's really beginning to regret not slicking himself up. He starts to rock anyway, hoping Roman doesn't notice the way his hands and legs are beginning to tremble.

He keeps up the shallow depth for a few moments, occasionally taking another quarter-inch or so, but Roman must be growing impatient. He tugs Jason's hips down, sheathing half of his cock in his ass, and that breaks down Jason's defenses well enough to get him to howl in pain.

“W-w-wait, wait...!” he says. It's almost like he's reliving their first time again. He feels inexperienced, helpless, _young._ “Just.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I-I told you, just gimme a minute.”

Roman chuckles. He wraps a hand around Jason's cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke. “Such bravado. You don't have to pretend for me, my boy.”

Jason bites his lip, muscles of his ass twitching around Roman's dick. He holds his gaze for another few seconds, then slams himself down the rest of the way.

“ _Oh,_ ” Roman groans, tilting his head back. Jason, meanwhile, practically whimpers, slamming a hand over his own mouth to stifle it.

It hurts. It hurts _bad,_ to the point where Jason doesn't know how he's going to be able to lift himself back up again. Even though Roman is slicked up, he's big, and Jason is tight, and no matter how hard he tries to relax himself, his body won't obey. He can feel tears prick at his eyes, and he wipes them away in frustration.

One of Roman's hands stays on his dick, and the other reaches around to rub soothing circles into his back. It's almost offensively intimate.

“Shh, my boy,” he says, “it's alright. You're doing wonderfully.”

Jason's heart flutters at the same time his cock throbs. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“S-saying... those things.” Jason sucks in a harsh, shaky breath, eyes screwed shut. “I-I'm not... I'm fine. Don't need you telling me.”

Roman chuckles. “Such a strong one, aren't you?”

He _must_ feel the way Jason's muscles contract around him. A bead of precum balls up at the tip of his cock. “Told you to stop.”

To prove that he's fine (and to try and distract Roman enough to shut him up), Jason starts to move. He can barely pull up an inch before he has to sit down again, and he still feels more pain than pleasure, but even so, his dick stands rock-hard in Roman's fist. It might be time to accept that he's more of a masochist than he lets on.

Roman rolls his hips to meet Jason's movements, allowing Jason to lift himself up a little further each time. He tells himself it's too much, and his shivering legs attest to that, but he doesn't dare stop. He tries to reassure himself that he's fine, he'll be fine, but Roman, that absolute fucking bastard, drowns out Jason's mental voice with his own.

“Look at this... So good for your first time on top,” he coos, stroking Jason's cock almost reverently. “My talented boy. You always make daddy so proud.”

Jason lets out a strangled noise at that, lifting his arm to bite into it. The praise makes his head spin, and he moves faster, finally beginning to relax just a little bit more.

“Now, now, let me _hear_ you,” Roman says, and reluctantly, Jason lowers his arm. “That's it. Try to lift your hips a little more... _There_ you go. Just like that, Jason.”

The tears come back unbidden, and Jason can feel his whole body flush, hot and sweaty and trembling above Roman. He whines out a moan, hands set on Roman's chest, mussing up his fancy button-down shirt. He's moving faster now, a little more on his own and a little less with Roman's help, full and stretched and so, _so_ thrilled.

When was the last time someone complimented him like this? No, there's never been a time _like this,_ not with someone's hands on him and cock in him and eyes raking over his naked body. The closest he's ever gotten was when he was training in the Cave, he thinks, and that was so much different, the praise lighter, platonic, and not something he needs to be thinking about right now.

He feels weak and leans forward, the change in angle again making his body burn, but he doesn't care. He lies down flat on top of Roman, burying his face into the crook of his neck. Roman's hand is still on his back, rubbing him, cradling him.

“Good boy. It hurts, I know. My strong, lovely boy.”

“ _Daddy,_ ” Jason breathes drunk on sensation, head swimming and heart throbbing. “Dad, _please—_ Hurt me. M-make me come.”

He hears Roman's breath catch, feels his cock throb inside him, and holds onto that sense of satisfaction like a starving man savors his last morsel. Roman's hands move back to his hips, lifting him up just to slam him back down. Jason yelps, digging his nails into Roman's shoulders, but he doesn't object.

“No stranger to pain, are you, my boy?” Roman asks, and Jason hates how right he is. “Nnh. I love hurting you. You take it so well...”

Jason yelps again, bites down on the leather at Roman's neck. He throbs and he twitches and he grinds his hips down, and pain and pleasure mix together, get under his skin and fill him up until he's sure he can't take it any more. He bears down on Roman's cock involuntarily, and Roman's nails dig into his skin, holding him down while Jason's orgasm tears its way out of him.

It's so much, so hot and wet and draining, and it's all Jason can do just to try and brace his legs against Roman's waist while Roman keeps thrusting up into him. He doesn't know how long he keeps going, figures he must have blacked out at some point, because then he can feel himself coming _again,_ and it's so overwhelming that all he can do is shake and drool and cry out.

Finally, _finally,_ Roman comes inside him, bucking up into him so sharply Jason feels like he's being stabbed. He lets out a choked sob against Roman's shoulder, thinking, _god, that's good._

Even after softening, it hurts when Roman pulls out. Jason feels the ghost of his presence linger inside him, knows he's gonna be feeling this for at least a week. He wonders if his hips are bruised; he hopes they are.

The two of them lie there, panting, the air thick with the smell of sex. Roman absently trails a finger over his wet hole, smearing his own cum around as it leaks out.

“Mmm. This is mine,” he says, casually.

“Is it?” Jason asks. “Am I?”

Roman turns his head toward him, presses the zipper by his mouth against Jason's lips. He shoves his finger inside so fast that Jason barely has time to gasp.

“Yes,” he says, “you are.”

Jason, for whatever reason, feels content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't meant to be fluffy or anything but Jason's a sucker for feeling wanted, feelings can cash him ousside howbow dah


	4. Buried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't quit this story. the timeline makes no sense, honestly I think Jason and Roman are just suspended forever in some sort of parallel fuck-land, but it's whatever
> 
> I went harder on the BDSM in this one because I just can't stop sinning, but from the looks of all ur comments and kudos it seems like y'all can't, either, so PLEASE ENJOY I LOVE U ALL

Jason is beginning to feel like he's really getting sidetracked.

More and more, he finds himself thinking of Roman: touching him, fucking him, ruining him. That last one used to be his dominant thought, but the other two have started to drown it out.

It's not like he _likes_ the lunatic, not like he _actually_ believes he's his precious little son-surrogate. He still wants to burn everything Black Mask has created. But when Roman bends him over a desk and fucks him hard and fast just minutes before a meeting with his subordinates, it gets a little hard to think of anything but how badly he wants to come.

Sue him, alright?

So he might be a bit in over his head. That's fine. When isn't he? At least he can say he's having fun. And, fond as Roman is of pushing his limits, he hasn't actually done anything _too_ freaky yet.

Until, one day, he approaches Jason with a collar in hand.

“No.”

“You haven't even heard my proposal yet.”

“I can imagine it,” Jason says, “and it ends with me saying 'no.'”

“Come, now, Red. This denial of yours gets tiring after a while.” He spins the collar, black leather with silver trim, around one of his fingers. “Save it for the bedroom, alright?”

Jason opens his mouth to insist he doesn't have a denial problem, but shuts it when he realizes that would only prove Roman's point. After another moment's consideration, he says, “Make it quick. I've got things to do.”

“That,” Roman says, “is actually the good part about my proposal. Do what I ask, and it won't detract from your daily duties at all.”

Jason quirks an eyebrow, eyes locked on the collar. “I have a feeling I know where this is going, but I'll humor you. What do you want me to do?”

“Wear this.” Roman holds out the collar. “All day.”

“Yup,” Jason says, turning on his heel. “I was right. Answer's no.”

“Don't be so quick to refuse, my boy,” Roman says, and Jason rolls his eyes at himself, because the pet name gets him to stop. “That shirt you always wear will cover it up.”

“Then what's the point?”

Roman sets one hand on his shoulder, and reaches around with the other to dangle the collar in front of his face. “The point is that you and I will both know it's there.”

Now that it's closer, Jason can see more of the details on the collar. Embroidered in silver thread on the front in fancy script are the letters “R. S.” The thought of having a mark of ownership on him, under his clothes or not, makes Jason's lip curl. He thinks about smacking the collar to the ground and storming off.

He thinks about it, but he doesn't.

“If you're worried, don't be,” Roman says. “It's one of a kind. I haven't used it on anyone else before.”

“Yeah, 'cause _that's_ what I was worried about,” Jason says, and this time, he doesn't even try to hide his eye-rolling. “I'm not just _one of_ your sluts, I'm the _top_ slut. Jesus, if only mom and dad could see me now. I've come so far.”

Roman chuckles, reaching a hand around Jason's shoulders to unclasp the collar. He holds it up to Jason's neck, initials front and center.

“You're certainly the first person I've _asked_ to collar up,” Roman says.

“Aw. So considerate. This almost makes up for the time you came on my favorite leather jacket.”

“I told you I'd buy you a new one,” Roman says, “but let's not get caught up on the past. Yes or no, Red? It's fine if you don't want to wear it, though I must say, if that's the case, I'm not sure I'll be able to clear up my schedule tonight...”

Jason heaves a sigh and snatches the collar out of Roman's hands. “You owe me the best fuck of my life,” he says, jabbing a finger at Roman's mask, before turning around and stomping out.

* * *

 

The collar is thin, but it still leaves a crease in his uniform when he pulls it on. It's subtle enough that you have to be looking for it to notice anything off, but look, Roman does. All day, whenever they run into each other, Jason can _feel_ Roman's eyes on his neck, even if that stupid mask of his covers up his eyes.

What's worse is that he can't stop looking at himself whenever he passes by a reflective surface. He's never thought of himself as being particularly concerned with his appearance or what other people think of him, but he can't help but wonder if anyone else notices something is up. Can they tell there's something going on? What would they think if they knew? Red Hood, scourge of the underworld, all collared up like a dog. If anyone else were to know what a goddamn freak he was...

He shudders. _Definitely_ in too deep.

The worst part, he thinks, is that absolutely nothing spectacular happens all day. Nobody (but Roman) looks at him any different. Nothing blows up or goes to shit. Roman doesn't even surprise him with anything else. And yet, despite it all, Jason feels different. He spends the entire day reminding himself not to touch his neck, yanks down his high collar to take a look at the leather one whenever he's alone with a mirror.

He hates how good he looks in it.

Finally, evening comes. Jason doesn't even realize he's pacing until his phone buzzes in his pocket and snaps him out of his reverie. He holds it up to his ear without checking the number.

“Come,” Roman says. “My room.”

Jason hangs up and does as he's told.

* * *

 

Roman's standing behind him, fully-dressed. Jason's shirt is gone, but the collar is there, stark and black against his skin. The full-length mirror on Roman's door shows him every scar and blemish on his body.

“Look at you,” Roman sighs. “I've got such a strong boy. So obedient.”

Roman's finger, tracing little patterns over the collar and his neck, feels feather-light on Jason's skin. _Too gentle,_ he finds himself thinking.

“If that's the impression I'm giving you,” Jason says, “then I'm not trying hard enough.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Roman says. “You're plenty strong.”

“I was wondering when you'd start with the dad jokes.”

Roman chuckles. He trails his fingers down Jason's sides, making him shudder.

“You _are_ obedient,” he chimes. “Whether you want to be or not. It must be in your nature.”

“It isn't,” Jason says, too fast. He turns his head to glare at Roman over his shoulder. Images of disappointed stares, broken bones, and green gloves with bloodied knuckles flash into his head. “Trust me.”

“I think—”

“There's your first mistake.”

“I _think,_ ” Roman goes on, “you act out because you have an innate desire to be punished. You want to be put in your place.”

Jason scowls. “Armchair psychology is not your strong suit, old man. Can we get to the main event? I'm starting to wonder if you're just running outta tricks at this point.”

“You've still got so much to learn, my boy,” Roman sighs. Suddenly, he grabs Jason's hips and tugs him back harshly. “Don't you realize? This _is_ the main event. All of it.”

“Right.” Jason tries to ignore the way his breath catches in his throat. “Well, if that's the case, I gotta say I like being slapped around way better. At least that doesn't leave me bored to tears.”

Maybe Roman knows Jason's anything but bored, or maybe he just doesn't feel like arguing. Either way, Jason's grateful when he's pushed none-too-gently to his knees and then rammed into the mirror.

“Look,” Roman says, holding him by his hair and grinding him into the glass. It doesn't crack, but Jason can feel bruises start to well up under his eye. “It used to take so much more work to get you on the ground. Maybe you're right; perhaps I _do_ need to change things up.”

Jason's shoulders tense, but he doesn't say anything. It's hard to, with his teeth knocking up against the mirror. Roman's foot nudges its way underneath him, and he grinds down against the cool, hard leather of his shoe.

“I've been very nice to you, you know. Few people get such special treatment from me.”

Jason grunts. “This is nice?”

“This is _heavenly._ ” The toe of Roman's shoe hits the sensitive spot between his shaft and balls, and Jason claws at the mirror, steaming it up with a series of heavy breaths. “But I'd be lying if I said I only treat people I _dis_ like badly.”

Jason wants to say something witty, something snarky, but Roman's foot doesn't let up, and he's starting to see stars. It _hurts,_ but his whimper is far from pained.

“And I'll be honest, Red, seeing you in that collar has really sparked something in me. So.” He finally, _finally_ lowers his foot, and Jason can breathe again. “What's say we take this downstairs?”

Jason's head is swimming, and it takes him a few moments to even understand what language Roman is speaking. “Downstairs...?”

“That's right. Come.”

Roman yanks him up by his hair, and Jason stumbles to his feet. His crotch is throbbing in pain, but his cock is hard as ever. He lets himself get dragged over to one corner of the room, where Roman yanks on what turns out to be a fake book on his shelf. There's a _click,_ then a metallic whirring, and Jason has to force his jaw shut.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me...”

There's a secret elevator behind the bookshelf. Of _course_ there's a secret elevator behind the bookshelf.

“Owning your own building has its perks,” Roman says, tugging him in.

“I know,” Jason says. “I know.”

* * *

 

The elevator opens on what must be a below-ground floor, for all the time they spent inside it. As it turns out, “downstairs” looks more or less exactly how Jason thought it would. It's large, with low ceilings, crowded with restraints and weapons and pieces of furniture that could either be for sex or torture, Jason can't really tell. If he squints in the low light, he can make out faint red stains on the cold stone floor.

He's not sure if this is better or worse than a Batcave, honestly.

Roman shoves him in, and the elevator doors seal shut behind them. Jason hears the whirring of it going back up, and realizes with a numbing certainty how trapped he is.

It makes his mouth water.

He spends far too much time looking around at everything. Shackles and ropes hang from bars crisscrossed over the ceiling, some rusted, some bloody. An assortment of every type of whip imaginable hangs on one wall, while a selection of power tools hangs on the other. Jason swallows.

“I get the feeling that you didn't bring me down here for some father-son woodshop, huh?” he says.

“Oh, don't you worry,” Roman says, placing a hand at the small of his back so he can lead him deeper into the room. “Those are for people I _really_ dislike.”

Jason can swear he hears the ghost of a scream echoing off the walls, and remembers that he hates Roman. The man is a maniac.

He wonders what went wrong in his head to make him crazy enough not to turn tail and run.

In the back of the room, past shelves and racks and tables lined with surgical implements, there's a bed. Of course there's a bed. It's big and black, a four-poster that looks much less well-worn than the rest of the furniture in the room.

_I'm special,_ Jason thinks, with more than just a hint of sarcasm.

“I figure some familiarity is good,” Roman says, conversationally. “At least for our first time down here.”

Jason wants to tell Roman that there won't be a second time, but he's effectively mute. He wonders if the collar is responsible for choking off all his sense.

Brow creased, he walks forward, smoothing his palms over the silky black sheets. He remembers sleeping on damp cardboard and concrete, and isn't sure if he's mad or ecstatic. The duvet alone probably cost more than his parents made in their lifetimes.

It's a bad train of thought. Luckily, Roman is there to pull him out of his head, suddenly behind him again, dragging his nails up his sides.

“I'm going to do whatever I want to you,” Roman says, low and hot in his ear. “I just want you to know that.”

Jason nods.

* * *

 

He's not sure why Roman brought him to the bed, because he just ends up on his knees. His arms are bound behind his back with scratchy rope, and he could probably work the knot open if he had enough time, but it's so much harder than picking a lock.

He doesn't try, though. All his attention is focused on the feeling of Roman's hard cock fucking his mouth.

He's drooling so much that it's dripping down his chin, over his _collar,_ down to his chest. It feels like the whole bottom half of his face is wet. He's slurping and gurgling and making tiny little noises in the back of his throat, and it's positively obscene. He wishes he could see if Roman's taken off his mask, but he's blindfolded, only able to use touch and sound to figure out what's going on.

Maybe that's for the best. He doesn't want to have to look around at all Roman's _options_ while he waits for him to pick something.

When Roman pulls away abruptly, Jason leans forward without thinking, mouth open, tongue out. He gets nothing but a hand ruffling his hair.

“Eager, kid. What do you want?”

“Want your cock.”

He gets a slap across the face. He draws in a slow, steady breath.

“Wrong answer.”

“Hurt me.”

A backhand, this time.

“Cute, but still not what I'm looking for. Think.”

Jason sits still, nothing to look at, nothing but his own ragged breaths to hear. He thinks about how raw his wrists will be because of this rope, about how his cock is straining against the zipper of his jeans, about the way the leather of his collar — _his_ collar — sits snugly against his throat.

He thinks about “R. S.”

“...Whatever you want,” he says finally, and Roman chuckles in that way that makes his cock throb and his toes curl.

“Good boy.”

He's yanked up by his arm, turned and shoved face-first onto the bed. His feet are still planted firmly on the ground. Roman's hands, rough and quick, undo his pants and yank them down. The silk sheets brush up against his cock, so smooth and soft that he almost starts grinding against them.

Roman shoves his legs apart as far as they'll go. “Stay here.”

_As if I could go anywhere,_ Jason thinks, but all that comes out of his mouth is a contented sigh.

He hears Roman's nice shoes _tap-tap-tapping_ against concrete, getting further and further away, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Jason wonders if he's going to leave him there. He's not sure _why_ the thought is so scary, and he doesn't have time to think on it, because before long, Roman's back.

“Do you have any idea how good you look like this?” he asks, and Jason's face flushes. He doesn't want to respond, but Roman urges him on with a stern, “I asked you a question, Red.”

“C-can't say I've seen myself from that angle before,” he says, to avoid having to insist Roman's bullshitting him.

“Well, you are exquisite.”

His brow furrows. Before he can figure out how he feels about that, something flat and hard and unforgiving comes down on his ass. It rocks him forward, and he yelps.

“Sorry, I couldn't resist. You ever been paddled before?”

Jason buries his face in the sheets, but still talks loud enough to be heard. “Not everyone has a dungeon full of sex toys at their disposal, _Roman_ , so no. I— _Augh!_ ”

Roman hits him again, harder this time. “No, no, that won't do. I'll be 'Sir' tonight.”

Jason laughs, a little manic around the edges. “Seriously? We're really doing this?”

“You asked for it.” Another smack. Jason's hands curl into fists. “Though I suppose I could settle for 'daddy' if you really have trouble.”

“...You're doing it again,” Jason says after a moment.

“Doing what?”

“Being nice to me.”

He means it to come out smug, but it's too soft, too pointed. The air settles heavy around them. Jason's heart speeds up, and he ignores every instinct telling him he's making a mistake.

“I suppose you're right,” Roman says. One hand comes down to grip Jason's neck, two fingers sliding under his collar. It's snug enough that it makes his breath stutter. “You need a firm hand, don't you? I can respect that.”

He slams the paddle down again, and Jason can practically taste the relief on his tongue.

“More.”

Another smack. Then another, harder, lower on his ass. “You don't get to tell me that. You understand?”

“M—”

The paddle strikes him again, and again, and Jason rocks forward every time, pushing himself up on his toes. He muffles his whines in the bed sheets.

“You wanna talk? Answer me this question.” With every word, he brings the paddle down again. “Who. Do you. Belong. To?”

When Jason finishes yelping, he squirms around, pressing his ass back toward Roman's paddle. “Just hit me. Just hit—!”

_Smack._

“Who?”

“Want it, I want it—”

The edge of the paddle digs down, pressing just under his balls. Jason sobs despite himself.

“Who, Jason?”

Stubbornly, he keeps his face pressed into the mattress. Roman bears down with the paddle.

“Don't be such a fucking brat.” He eases up the pressure, only to grind down again. “Say. It. _Now._ ”

“You, Sir!” The words spill from Jason's lips unhindered, an ache spreading from his groin to his lower back, all the way down to his knees. “ _Fuck,_ I'm yours. I'm _yours._ You know how to treat me, daddy. Oh, my god. Oh, please.”

Roman's thumb strokes the edge of his collar almost affectionately. He keeps the paddle where it is for a moment longer, then pulls it away. “There. Was that so hard?”

“Please, Sir.” Jason has to turn his head to the side to get some air, but everything feels like it's spinning. “Please fuck me, Sir. God, I want you so fuckin' bad, please...”

Roman spanks him again. Jason sinks into the sheets and moans.

“I told you, you don't get to make the decisions, here.” Roman spanks him three more times, and Jason becomes vaguely aware that he's shaking like a leaf. The pain is ever-present, but dulled. Adrenaline, maybe. He whines through it.

“Hurts,” he breathes. “Hurts.”

“Oh, my boy,” Roman says, wiping away the sweat that's gathered on the back of Jason's neck. “You don't know what pain is, yet.”

  
  


By the time Roman has him strung up in a different position, Jason wants to argue that he definitely does. His knees are on the bed, which is nice, but his pants are totally gone, leaving his legs free to be spread as wide as Roman wants them. Turns out, that's pretty wide. And his arms have been un- and re-bound, above his head this time, the stretch already wearing him out. That's all in addition to the stinging ache on his ass, which he's sure is as red as his hood by now.

He licks his lips. He's ready for more.

“More” comes in the form of something firm but flexible trailing over his abdomen. Some sort of... of switch? Is that it? Or a cane, maybe—

Whatever it is, when Roman brings it down just under his nipple, it _hurts._

He swings a little, testing the rope-and-pulley restraints keeping him tied to the ceiling. Even though it burns, he keeps his legs spread wide.

“Oh, that's a nice mark,” Roman says. “Pity you can't see it. Don't worry, though; I'll leave you with plenty to remember me by.”

The switch comes down again and again, over his chest and his stomach and his sides. Each blow cuts a white-hot line of pain into his body, one that crackles and fades into a low burn, like a sparkler burning out. By the time Roman moves to swat him on his thighs, Jason's gripping the ropes like a lifeline, grinning deliriously.

“God, I can't believe how lucky I am,” Roman says, and Jason can tell by his footfalls that he's circling around the bed. “Never had a slave so happy to get punished.”

“Not a slave,” Jason insists, though the terminology makes him hotter than he'd like to admit. “Your boy.”

Roman chuckles, trailing the tip of the switch over raw, raised marks. “That's right. My boy.” He tangles his fingers in Jason's hair, affectionately at first, then yanks his head back so hard Jason's neck pops. “A fucked up little boy who loves it when his daddy slaps a collar on him.”

Jason gapes, arching his back, cock straining with nothing to rub up against it. “Yes, Sir.”

He wonders why it comes so naturally to him now, saying that. But it makes his cock throb, and he's in so much pain he can hardly focus on all the different ways this is wrong, so he decides not to question it.

Roman whips him across the stomach with the switch, making him jump. “Do you want daddy to fuck you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another blow hits him on his uninjured thigh, so close to his cock that he can feel a gust of air against it when the switch cracks down.

“Want him to hit you?”

“ _Yes,_ Sir.”

The end of the switch trails over his balls, up his cock, and Jason shakes with anticipation.

“Where?”

“Anywhere, Sir.” Jason's lip trembles. “Everywhere, Sir.”

He hears a small intake of air from Roman's direction. “...Now, where'd you learn to be such a good little pain slut?”

“You, Sir.”

Roman's quiet after that, but he taps the switch against Jason's cock, gently at first, getting harsher and harsher with each couple of swats. His other hand is still in Jason's hair, holding his head still, so Jason can do little more than jerk his hips with every jolt of pain. His reflexes tell him to move back, but his willpower keeps him as steady as he can manage, despite the fact that every smack leaves him crying out in pain.

By the time Roman takes pity on him and stops his assault, Jason is shaking from head to toe, tears leaking out from under his blindfold. A bead of precum cuts a line down his cock, stinging the whole way down.

“...Red _is_ your color,” Roman says, and Jason can feel his eyes drag over him.

“ _Please,_ ” he sobs, and sees nothing but black. He wonders if he'd be able to say any different even if his blindfold was off.

One second, there's Roman's hand in his hair and the lingering presence of his switch, and the next, there's nothing. He almost cries out, but then the force holding his arms up goes slack, and he falls face-forward onto the bed. A second later, he feels the mattress sink down behind him, and he's pulled back against Roman's cock. It's slick, but cool, the lube having had no time to warm up. He shudders.

“Love you like this,” Roman says, shoving his face further into the mattress. He feels him line his cock up with his hole, and tries to relax when he starts to push in. “Always so compliant once I've broken you down. The mouthy ones are always the neediest in the end.”

Jason is ashamed, but it's a sort of shame that heats him up and makes his cock twitch. Times like these, when the logical parts of his brain have all but shut off, are the best. He can lose himself to bliss without getting stuck in his head.

Roman rocks forward, burying himself to the hilt, and Jason lets out a muffled cry. He hasn't been prepared at all, and the position tightens his muscles; then there's Roman's hand on his abused ass, and the sheets, silken as they are, scratching angrily against the marks on his chest, and the pain all melts down into one big, molten mess of pleasure.

Roman starts moving hard and fast, flesh slapping against flesh, rougher than Jason ever remembers him being. He claws at the sheets with half-numb hands, struggling to get enough air into his lungs. But Roman's cock slams unevenly against his prostate, and that liquid-hot pleasure overtakes him, and it's all he can do to suck in hot mouthfuls of stale air against the mattress. His head is swimming, and _god,_ it feels good.

Then Roman yanks him up by his collar, and his breath stops altogether for a moment. He coughs once he's able, mouth hanging open, and, in his haze, becomes particularly fascinated with the feel of thick beads of drool dripping down over his hands.

“Say you're mine,” Roman commands, and Jason doesn't even think about defying him.

“I-I'm yours.”

“Whose?”

“ _Yours!_ ”

“Red Hood belongs to...?”

“Black Mask.”

“What are you, Red? Tell me what you are.”

Jason thinks a million things, but can only say so many. “A whore, a fffucking— stupid little slut, little attention whore, mmm, _daddy,_ love it, love it, love your cock...”

“Gonna come for me? Huh? Gonna come without even being touched?”

“Uh-huh.” Jason nods. He thinks that if Roman didn't have a hand on his shoulder, he'd fall with his face in the mattress again. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, yes, _yes..._ ”

Without warning, Roman wraps an arm around him, raking his nails down the lines whipped into Jason's torso. It sends a new explosion of pain coursing through him, and he gives in entirely, letting his body twitch while his cock spurts all over the blanket. All he can hear through his ringing ears are his own moans, and Roman muttering “ _take it whore that's right scream for me you little rat_ ” until the both of them are spent.

He's gotten in way too deep, and he doesn't know how to convince himself to dig back up again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed the trash. want to get in touch? follow me on tumblr: http://dicktofen.tumblr.com/


	5. Humiliated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, I've relented and officially listed this as an in-progress work. jayroman wins out. what a cruel mistress.....
> 
> SO this chapter is heavily inspired by fans who submitted ideas to me through [tumblr!](http://dicktofen.tumblr.com/) I can't thank you all enough for supporting this fic, be it through asks or kudos or comments. I don't reply to every single comment I get, but rest assured that I read every single one, multiple times, while clenching my fists and whispering "thank u.........." into the abyss. basically what I'm saying is, y'all give me life, u da real mvps
> 
> things escalate even more in this chapter because it's pwp and I'm a disgrace, so, enjoy

He continues to wear the collar under his clothes.

Stupid, right? Jason knows that more than anyone. But the angry red lines Roman left on his body fade too fast. The collar is something more tangible, more permanent. A secret shared between himself and his “boss,” a symbol of just how much he's given up to be here.

It'll pay off in the end, he tells himself. When Roman's too caught up in him to keep scheming, when Jason has more sway over him than anyone else, it'll make all this weirdness worth it. It's a longer game than he'd been expecting — a much more intense one, too — but he's handled everything life's thrown at him before, and he doesn't intend to stop now.

When Roman has him bent over his desk and pinned down by his neck, clothes hastily pushed aside so he can fuck him fast and hard, Jason lets himself think, only for a second, that he doesn't _want_ to stop.

He usually comes around during Roman's lunch break to stroll through his office like a cat, pretending like he's not interested at the same time he not-so-subtly shows off his collar. Business talk turns to banter, banter turns to flirting, and before he knows it, they spend the rest of Roman's break tangled together like high school lovers.

Today, though, he came to visit early, and he hadn't been intending to let things get this far. He really didn't mean to call him “Roman” instead of “Black Mask” or “Sir,” but he had to be punished for it anyway. So now, with his ass red and stinging from a quick, brutal spanking, he lets Roman fuck him, muffling his cries in the crook of his arm.

His eyes are unfocused, and it's good, it's so good having nothing to focus on but sensation and Roman's voice muttering honey-sweet insults, and then—

The phone rings.

To Jason's surprise, Roman says “Hold on,” then _picks it up._

He expects their little session to stop, but Roman keeps going, thrusting in and out of him with hardly a pause. Jason chokes back his surprise, throwing a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder. Roman holds a finger up to the zipper on his mask, ordering him to be silent.

“Talk to me,” he says into the phone. He lowers his hand down to Jason's back, his neck. “Yeah? No, I haven't heard from him. Completely useless, if you ask me. ...What? Well, tell him to get on it! I swear, if he thinks he can keep _me_ waiting...”

Jason can hardly believe what he's hearing. Roman sounds so stern, so positively _normal,_ even though he hasn't let up at all. It's such a stark contrast that he can't help but gape, and, predictably, a moan starts to make its way past his lips.

A sharp tug on his hair nearly makes him yelp, but he slams his mouth shut at the last minute. He claws at the wood of the desk, crisscrossing over marks he'd made days before.

The call goes on for what can't be more than a minute, but it feels maddeningly long from Jason's point of view. He keeps his lips clenched shut, suddenly very aware of each sound in the room: the _scrape-scrape-scrape_ of the desk against the floor; the ragged breaths he forces out through his nose; the wet squelching sounds Roman's cock makes with every thrust.

It's too loud. Deafening. How sensitive is Roman's desk phone, anyway? Is he talking to someone across the world, some supplier who won't give a damn who his client is fucking, or someone in the building downstairs, who might know by now what Red Hood sounds like when he grunts? Jason can't overhear any identifying information from Roman's side before the phone clicks back onto the receiver next to his head.

“Pardon me,” Roman says, in that tone that implies he's not sorry at all. “I've been rude, haven't I? Ignoring my boy...”

He sets both of his hands on Jason's hips and drives into him with renewed force, and Jason barks out a moan like he'd been holding it back for centuries.

“C-could've... let it go to, ah— voicemail...” he grits out, glaring scornfully at the phone.

“That was a very important call,” Roman says, like Jason's a child who needs the world of business explained to him. “If you wanted my undivided attention, you should've kept to our appointments.”

It's so _goddamn snotty_ that Jason can't help but laugh, breathless and stuttering against the wood of the desk.

“Th-thought family's more important than work, _daddy,_ ” he says, grinning over his shoulder. He rocks his hips back more forcefully, rolling his hips in a circle and slowing their pace for a moment. “ _Ahh..._ Can't make time for me? For this?”

“Come now, I never said—”

The phone rings again. Jason scrambles for it, but Roman gets there first.

“ _No—_ ”

“Talk.” The person on the other end does, and their tinny little voice makes Jason wrinkle his nose. Roman casts him a look that he supposes might be apologetic, but with that dumb mask on, it's hard to tell. “Mhm. Austria, I told you. What? No, you idiot, that's in _Australia..._ ”

Jason buries his head in his arms and sighs, though it trails off into an embarrassing little whimper. He's _close,_ and he doesn't like having to keep himself quiet when he comes. He doesn't like not having Roman's undivided attention, either. He tries to rock his hips back harder, but Roman holds him still with one firm hand.

Briefly, he lets his mind wander. He wonders what might happen if he lets himself moan like normal. He'll be punished, of course, but he's always been able to handle that before. What will the person on the other end think? Of Black Mask, of him? What if he hears him call Roman “daddy?” The thought makes his lashes flutter, and he lets out a moan that's barely more than a whisper.

It must still be too loud, because Roman's hand moves off of his hip. When it comes back, he can feel the biting press of an open pair of scissors against his skin, right by the fleshy part under his hipbone. He shudders, with half a mind to tell Roman that if he wants him to be quiet, hurting him like this isn't the way to do it. But he bites down on his arm anyway, careful to keep his voice from getting too loud.

The scissors stay there for the remainder of the call, pressing into him harder every time he dares to make a sound too loud for Roman's liking. They're too dull to draw blood, but that just makes them hurt more, which, in turn, drives Jason crazier. By the time Roman finally, mercifully hangs up, Jason's neglected cock is throbbing and leaking precum onto Roman's fancy rug.

“Good boy,” he says, burying his face in Jason's neck. He changes the angle of his thrusts at the same time he tangles his free hand in Jason's hair. “Now let me hear you scream properly.”

Jason does.

He's been thinking a lot about masks lately. Not just the ones Roman and his gang wear, or the ones he dons for a night on the town. He hates to admit it (because it makes him sound too much like Roman), but there really is something to the notion that people wear masks even when nothing's covering their face. Sort of like how Bruce Wayne is a mask shaped like an ignorant playboy, or Officer Grayson is a dim-witted pretty boy who can flip better than he can fight.

Or how Jason Todd pretends like he's no one's son.

No matter how many times he finds himself at Roman's feet or in his bed, he still wears his pride like a war medal, something he's earned, something he deserves. Even when he has to re-adjust his pants when trailing out of a room behind Roman, he fixes everyone nearby with the same “I'm-better-than-you-don't-be-jealous” stare. Sometimes he thinks that “mask” is the only thing that saves him from completely destroying his reputation.

Even with that thought in mind, nagging at him to try and remind him not to let this game take over his life, Jason still can't help but feel a thrill during encounters like the one with the phone. He wants to say he never took himself as much of an exhibitionist, but the bright red helmet and tendency to get attention by decapitating people stands out as a glaring contradiction.

So, yeah, maybe he should've seen this coming. Still doesn't make it any easier to accept the reality that he's even more show-offy than he ever expected.

He tries to contain himself in public, he really does. But even in benign, totally non-sexual situations, he can't resist the urge to start shit. Like when Roman _insists_ the lower east side guys aren't pulling their weight, when Jason's seen for himself just how hard the bozos try.

“Yeah, they're a few screws short of a toolbox,” he says, “but they kicked major Maroni ass last week at the docks. You gotta give 'em that.”

“I don't _got to_ do anything,” Roman says in a stern, mocking tone. “They've been short every week for a month. I don't care how scrappy they are. I'm running a business, not filming an underdog movie.”

Even through the masks, Jason can feel the eyes of Roman's henchmen bouncing back and forth between the two of them. Despite that — maybe _because_ of it — Jason presses on.

“I get that you've got this whole 'cold, unfeeling CEO' vibe going on, but that shit's really not good for morale,” Jason says. He folds his arms over his chest. “You want your men to rake in the dough, they've gotta think it's worth their time. Would a 'nicely done' every once in a while really kill you?”

“I can't be as _lenient_ with everyone else as I am with you,” Roman says, and Jason can hear irritation creeping up into his tone. “They've got to go. Consider this the end of our discussion.”

“You're being unfair!” Jason slams a palm flat on the table between the two of them, displacing a few papers and making a couple of the goons jump. “If your reaction to every little setback is to kill people, you're gonna end up with a real empty crib in no time, _boss._ ”

Roman's silent for a few moments too long. Jason tenses without meaning to. He can feel a shift in the atmosphere, one he's felt often enough to have a hunch about what's coming next. But there are people here. Surely, he wouldn't—

“You're right.”

Both Jason and the henchmen look puzzled as Roman strolls over to a chair, spins it around, and takes a seat. He sounds relaxed, almost friendly.

“Perhaps I should experiment with alternative methods of discipline.” He cocks his head, meeting Jason's eyes. Jason swallows a thick knot in his throat, creasing a few papers under his hand as his fingers curl in toward his palm. Then Roman leans back and pats his legs in a way Jason's all too familiar with by now. “Come here.”

Jason's speechless. His mouth drops open, and, try as he might to form words, he can't. He looks around at the henchmen, some sitting around the table, some standing nearby. He can't see their faces, but he's sure they can sense the tension in the air, because not a one of them so much as moves an inch. Finally, Jason looks back at Roman, and a stunned chuckle tears its way out of his throat.

“You... You're not serious. No.” He shakes his head, backing away a few steps. “Nice one, but I'm out. Go be freaky with another one of your—”

Roman snaps his fingers, loud as a firecracker. Jason's back is turned by now, so he doesn't see what he does after that, but he hears him say “Please,” and before Jason can leave, one of the broader henchmen is blocking his path.

Jason gapes. The goon shrugs almost apologetically. Then he grabs Jason by the shoulders, spins him around, and marches him back over to Roman.

“Hey, what's— Come on, Black Mask, this is dumb. Okay, porky, hands _off—_ Jesus.” He irritably brushes off his shoulders once he's released, glaring to the side. He's intent on looking anywhere but at Roman, though he can feel Roman's eyes burning holes into the side of his face.

“ _Jason._ ”

Uh-oh. His name. Jason can hear the unspoken _“you are in a tremendous amount of trouble”_ in Roman's tone. Slowly, with his heart caught in his throat, he turns his head. Roman points a finger at his lap without saying another word.

This isn't happening. This _can't_ be happening. Jason's mouth is dry, his head is spinning, and, worst of all, his dick is getting hard inside the confines of his jeans. His breath starts to come faster, and he looks at the henchmen out of the corners of his eyes, watches them watch _him_ intently.

“I-I— I'm sorry, okay?” he says, hoping that'll be the end of it. “I was wrong. You were right. Could you stop being weird now?”

“Oh, but I'm only giving you what you want,” Roman says, his voice like silk over ice. “Let's try things _your_ way. What do you say, boys? Hm? Should we give Red Hood's methods a chance?”

The goons glance around and murmur amongst themselves, like they're not sure whether or not that's a trick question. Jason hates them. He wishes they'd say something, do something, to get him out of this, but knows they won't.

He looks back at Roman, who smooths a palm out over his crisp, pressed slacks.

Jason exhales.

He feigns innocence, pretends like he doesn't know exactly what Roman wants. Figures it'll look less obvious that way. He goes to sit down on Roman's lap, but a sharp tug on his arm sends him over Roman's knees. He cries out, cursing himself for the way he sounds, more needy than startled. He flails, clutches Roman's leg, the edge of the chair, and feels himself go red from his cheeks to his ears.

He can't see anyone's faces from his angle, blessedly, but he can hear the goons shift when Roman runs a hand down his spine. He wonders what they're thinking. Are they disgusted? Confused? Afraid? Or, god fucking forbid, are they turned on? Can they tell that Jason's hard as a rock under his clothes?

This is sick. It's so, _so_ fucking outrageous, and Jason hates himself for loving it.

“What do you think?” Roman asks, casual as can be while he rubs circles over Jason's ass. “How many would be appropriate for speaking out of turn and disrespecting the boss's wishes?”

“Uhhh... How many what?” one of the goons asks, and Jason would roll his eyes if he wasn't so lightheaded.

He has a feeling Roman does enough of that for the both of them, though, because he can hear it in his voice when he says, “Nevermind. We'll go with ten. For each offense.”

“What?” Jason squirms, trying to push himself up in Roman's lap. “No. C'mon, Roman, that's—”

“We've talked about this,” Roman chides, pushing him back down. “That's another ten.”

“You're not serious,” Jason says again, feeling frantic now, heart fluttering like a thousand butterflies. “I'm sorry. I'm _sorry,_ okay, Black Mask? You don't have to—”

Roman's hand comes down heavy on his backside. Jason just barely bites back a yelp.

“One.”

Things go so quiet that, for a second, Jason wonders if anyone in the room is even breathing. You could cut through the tension with a knife, and that silence lasts until Roman brings his hand down a second time.

“Two. Come on, keep count.”

Jason doesn't know if he'll be able to manage thirty of these. In private? Sure. He could take fifty swats, easy. But right here, right now, in full view of, what, six guys? Jesus, he's never felt more vulnerable.

“No?” Roman says, when Jason keeps his lips clamped firmly shut. “Oh well. Why don't you boys help me, then?”

Jason doesn't have to look up to know what he means. When the next swat comes down, he hears a couple of the men uncertainly say, “Three...?”

It must please Roman, because he's quicker after that, though still slow enough to allow the goons ample time to announce the next few numbers, an uncertain cacophony of “Four, five, six.”

That bastard. Jason knows exactly what he's doing. With the henchmen counting, there's no way Jason can fool himself into thinking they're on their own. He's forced to acknowledge, with every slap and every jerk, that there's a group of people nearby watching him get spanked.

By the time “ten” rolls around, he has to cover his mouth to stifle a moan.

He hopes against hope that Roman will take mercy on him, see how well he's taken this much and let him get up without taking the rest of his punishment. But when number eleven rolls by without pause, he realizes with a sinking feeling that this _is_ mercy, in Roman's mind. The man's an absolute sadist, an unrepentant killer on his best days. He never, ever should have expected anything different, and can't curse himself enough for letting himself get into this situation.

The smacks come faster now, harder, and some of the henchmen get confused and fall silent. Or maybe, he thinks, it's not confusion, but arousal, the men biting their lips under their masks while they watch Jason fall apart. He truly is a sight, with his hair tousled and his face flushed, muffling not-so-innocent noises into his cupped palm. His cock _throbs_ on the next hit, and he finally relents, rolling his hips against Roman's leg.

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” one of the goons mutters.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Come on, Red, don't be so shy,” Roman says, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head up. Through eyes hazy with tears, Jason can see all of Roman's henchmen staring intently at him. “Show them what a good boss I am, going easy on you. Aren't you thankful?”

“I... I...” Jason tries, but words are lost to him at that moment. His mind's a chaotic mess of regret and arousal, desire and shame.

Roman clicks his tongue and smacks his ass again. “Twenty-three. Now, have you all stopped counting, too? Look, Jason, you've distracted them. Apologize.”

Jason's brow knits, and his face contorts into something like an angry pout. He's never felt so fucking humiliated in his life, and he can't stand how it makes his cock twitch and throb against Roman's thigh.

Another smack. Roman's grip tightens in his hair. “Twenty-four. Don't make me add more on.”

“I'm... I'm...” Jason licks his lips and sucks in a breath, shaking under Roman's hands. “I'm sorry. Nngh... Please...”

_Smack._

“Twenty-five. Please what?”

“P-please, just... just hurry up, please...”

He regrets the words as soon as he says them. Roman takes the time to squeeze one of his asscheeks before swatting him again.

“Twenty-six... Why rush? We're almost done. Boys, how do you think Red is doing? Is he taking his punishment well?”

Nobody says anything, but a few of the men nod. Jason lets his eyes wander, notices the bulge straining in one goon's pants. His mouth waters, but, defiantly, his eyelids flutter shut.

It makes the next smack feel twice as hard. “Twenty-seven. Such a good boy...”

_Smack._

“Twenty-eight. Well? Tell him how good he's being. My boy deserves to hear it.”

“Wha—” one of the men says.

“Knew he's the favorite,” another mutters bitterly.

“Good boy,” a third says, and it doesn't mean nearly as much coming from him, but it still makes Jason shudder. “Christ, you know how to pick 'em, boss.”

“I know.” _Smack._ “Twenty-nine. Poor boy's shaking...”

“Think he likes it.”

“No way! Who likes _that_ sorta thing?”

“Look at his face! That's an O face for sure.”

“Shoulda figured Red Hood'd be into the freaky shit...”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up,_ Jason thinks, but he doesn't dare make a sound, lest he miss even a single word.

When Roman's final smack makes contact, and he breathes out a satisfied “Thirty,” Jason comes in his pants.

  
  


He isn't allowed to excuse himself, even with an obvious damp patch spreading over his crotch. He's forced to take a seat on a hard wooden chair, where he sits stock-still for the rest of the meeting. Nobody really talks save for Roman, probably because they're far too interested in staring at Jason. Their eyes bore deep, burning holes into his body, a heated contrast to the cooling wetness between his legs.

Needless to say, Jason can't concentrate. He's too busy thinking of men in masks, able to hide their faces while his was on full display, red and sweaty and eyelashes dense with tears. He thinks about the bulge in one of the goons' pants, straining against his slacks. He thinks about what they'll say about Red Hood, former scourge of the underworld, when word gets out that he likes getting smacked around.

He knows he has to kill them. Bruce won't like it; hell, Jason isn't crazy about the idea, either. But what's done is done, and he's always been the one to get his hands dirty in ways that other heroes can't.

And his hands are _very_ dirty this time.

 


	6. Claimed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was originally gonna be a kind of breather chapter, but then things took a turn (as they always do with me), and uh, this happened
> 
> mind the updated tags as always, and enjoy??

“Come now, don't tell me you're still mad.”

Jason hums, sliding out from under Roman's arm to tend to the plants he keeps around his office. He doesn't know anything about caring for plants, of course, but it's a good distraction. He plucks a few perfectly-green leaves off their stems as if clearing away dead ones.

“They're trustworthy men, Red. They know when to keep their mouths shut.”

Jason picks up a small watering can and over-waters something with long, flat leaves. He can feel Poison Ivy cringing from miles away.

“You know I'd never do anything to compromise your position here.”

“Would you?” Jason snaps. He shoots a glare over his shoulder as he slams the watering can back down. He tries to force himself to mentally count to ten. He gets up to three before abandoning the notion.

Roman sighs, walking over to loop his arms around Jason's waist. They tighten when Jason tries to pull away again.

“Haven't I told you? I know what I'm doing,” Roman says, chin on Jason's shoulder. “You don't think I did that as a spur of the moment thing, do you? I know how much you love being watched, and I know which men of mine I can trust. Your reputation was never in any danger.”

Jason isn't sure he trusts Roman, but he sounds so sickly-sweet and sincere about it that it's hard to protest. He mentally goes over his options for what feels like the thousandth time: he can break away and put a stop to this whole thing, or he can play the part of the dutiful, attached sub/son-surrogate and finish up his mission.

An act, that's all it is.

Jason sighs, turning around in Roman's arms to press a kiss to the side of his mask.

“Okay, daddy. If you say so.”

* * *

 

Jason still keeps an eye on those men in his own time. So far, he hasn't heard anything that would lead him to believe they leaked what happened in their last big meeting, but you can never be too cautious. He glares at them when they pass by, glad for his mask to obscure how red his face gets. And they seem to want to live, because they don't snicker or whisper when he passes by.

But they do stare. He can feel their gaze drag down his body, lingering on his ass, his legs, his crotch, and it's unfair how riled up that gets him. He thinks of what Roman says and wonders how obvious it is that he likes to be watched.

And then he gets an idea.

It's a terrible idea, but then, none of this has exactly been by-the-book. And Jason thinks he's about frustrated and desperate enough to go through with it. The next time he catches one of the henchmen staring at him — the one with the sleeveless leather vest and the big, muscular arms — he walks over to him.

He smiles.

  


Ten minutes later, he's bent over a table in one of the empty meeting rooms, being fucked silly by a man whose real face he's never seen. He's called Chain, ever-so-creatively named after the gold chain he wears around his neck, but not even Jason's gone enough to call that name out. He _is_ making noise, though, and lots of it, clawing faintly at the table as it scrapes over the floor.

“F-fuck me, baby, yeah, like _that..._ ” Chain is big and clumsy and lacks finesse, but he's thick and rough enough to make Jason's knees weak. He keens the next time the head of Chain's cock catches his prostate, leaking precum already. “Right there, right there, don't stop...!”

He know he sounds like a whore. He's sure he must look thoroughly debauched, drool-slick cheek pressed against the flat of the table, clothes messily pushed out of the way. A year ago, he'd be mortified at the thought of ever letting some random fuckhead see him like this. He still feels shame nagging at him, trying to claw its way out of the deep place he shoved it into.

But above all of that, drowning out rationality and reason, it feels _good._ He feels desired, sexy, wanted in a way he never knew he'd like so much. It's the sort of feeling he supposes Dick Grayson is used to. When you can drive someone wild with your body alone, it takes away from the pressure to wow them with your mind. It's relaxing, in a way.

That, and it just feels fucking amazing.

Jason scrapes long lines into the wood of the table, delighting in Chain's ragged panting above him. This isn't like his encounters with Roman. It's not careful or methodical or measured. Jason's already close to coming, knows his partner is, too, but there's something to be said about a quick, hard fuck. Maybe he'll do this more often.

With that thought in mind, he stares pointedly up into the surveillance camera he knows is hidden in the corner of the room, and comes.

* * *

 

Post-fuck, Jason spends a few hours riding his bike around the city, letting the wind cut past him like a thousand freezing hands grabbing at his body. He takes his time, both relishing in his alone time and wondering what Roman might be doing; whether he watched his boy fuck around while it was happening, or only found out later on.

He returns after dark, heart pounding from a combination of adrenaline and anticipation. Despite that, he looks calm, arms folded loosely over his chest as he takes the long elevator ride up to the penthouse.

When the doors slide open, the lights are out. Jason's reminded of every cliché movie scene where a teenager tries to sneak back into the house late at night. The difference is, Jason makes no secret of his return, flipping on the light and tossing his leather jacket toward Roman where he sits stiffly on the couch.

Roman catches it before it can hit him in the face, and Jason flops down on the chair opposite him, separated from him only by one expensive glass coffee table. He snatches up Roman's half-empty glass of scotch and downs it, letting the burn warm him up from the inside out.

The only sound for the longest time is the _clank_ when Jason slams the glass down, empty save for the ice.

“...I suppose I deserved that,” Roman says after what feels like an eternity.

“Suppose you did.”

Roman leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. “It pains me to see my boy unhappy, it really does.”

“I actually had a pretty good time,” Jason says with a smirk on his face, trying his luck, always pushing.

He hears the soft _click_ of Roman's teeth setting on edge.

“I know young men like you have a tendency to act out when you feel like you've been wronged,” Roman says carefully, “but I wish you'd talk to me instead of doing things like that.”

Jason scoffs. He's not sure if this song and dance is part of the act or what, but all it's serving to do right now is to make him roll his eyes.

“That's never been my style,” he says, crossing one leg over the other while he leans back in his seat. “Picture's worth a thousand words, right, pops?”

“You're lucky I didn't keep any of your _pictures,_ ” Roman says, and Jason grins.

“That's a real shame. I figured you would, since you love showing me off so much. Y'know, I was considering bringing all your real _trusted men_ in to gather 'round and watch, maybe give me pointers, but I figure I'll save that for some other time. Keep my options open, y'know?”

Another silence falls between them, and Jason wonders if he went too far. Not like he'd do anything differently if he could go back in time and say it all again. He's never been a fan of keeping his ire secret.

Then, abruptly, Roman stands, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him out of the chair.

“Hey, whoa, was it something I said?” Jason asks, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He stumbles to keep up with Roman, tugging at his arm even though he knows Roman doesn't intend to let go. “Really, dude, you should use your words if you got a problem. A guy's mind might start to race—”

“For once in your goddamned life, would you _shut up?_ ” Roman growls, practically kicking open the bathroom door.

He flicks the light on and throws Jason to his knees, shutting and locking the door once they're in. Jason tries to stand up, but he's dragged by the scruff of his neck over to the tub, the edge of it slamming into his midsection.

“Get these off,” Roman says, tugging at his clothes, and Jason refuses to cooperate out of spite.

His shirt comes off after a brief struggle, tossed off to the side, and then Roman's arms are around his waist, tugging at his jeans. He gets them undone and yanks them down a couple inches, but Jason stubbornly sits on the floor, making it that much harder for Roman to get them off. He doesn't even realize he's grinning until Roman warns him to wipe the smile off his face.

The fight lasts a couple moments more, but eventually Jason relents enough for Roman to lift him up and bend him over the edge of the tub again. He tugs Jason's pants down to his knees, fabric of his boxers catching on his now-hard cock.

“You let him come inside you? Huh?” Roman asks, harsh and furious. He shoves two unlubricated fingers up Jason's ass, drawing out a low moan. “Jesus, you did. You reckless little _slut—_ ”

Jason gasps, gripping the edge of the tub to keep from falling in face-first. He can feel Roman's fingers against the slick remnants of his henchman's cum, and good _god,_ he's never felt so completely violated, so open.

Roman pulls out and holds his hand in front of Jason's face, smearing cum between his thumb and fingers. Jason tries to look away, but Roman grabs his chin with his free hand and forces him still.

“Look at this. You didn't even clean yourself up properly. You're _disgusting,_ do I have to do everything for you?” He tries to force his fingers into Jason's mouth, but Jason keeps his lips clamped tightly shut. “Oh, no, if you're that desperate for another man's cum, you can take it like a good whore.”

Roman forces his jaw open with the hand on his chin, and Jason's ashamed to think he doesn't fight back quite as hard as he should. Roman holds his mouth open with one strong thumb over his teeth, while the fingers of his other hand smear cum over his tongue. Jason gags, eyes watering, knuckles white where he grips the edge of the tub.

Roman finally lets go after cleaning his fingers on Jason's tongue, but Jason hardly gets a break. Roman hoists him up into the bath, and Jason has to flail out with his arms to keep balance while Roman tugs his pants the rest of the way off of his legs. His shoes go, too, and his socks, and before he has a chance to right himself, he feels the splash of hot water coming out of the faucet by his feet.

“You'd think a boy your age would know how to bathe—”

“I _did!_ ”

“— _Clearly_ not well enough.” Roman rolls up his sleeves, shoving Jason back down when he tries to sit up. “You like walking around like that, huh? Sloppy? Indecent?”

Jason's cheeks burn. The rest of him burns, too, in a different way, as the near-scalding water starts to fill up the tub around him.

“Jesus, Roman, you're acting like a total—”

“Legs open.”

When Jason doesn't respond in half a second, Roman tugs at his calf, sliding him down a few inches and leaving Jason positioned with one leg up over the edge of the tub. He scrambles to keep his head above water, feeling small and irresponsible, and totally, completely embarrassed. The kind of embarrassed that keeps his cock standing at full attention.

“Don't,” Jason says when Roman's hand slips between his legs, but when two fingers are shoved back inside him, he trails off into a gasp.

Roman works them in and out, and there's friction, even with the last bits of the henchman's cum still inside. It grows worse and worse the longer it goes on, the water pooled over him acting as a terrible lubricant. He groans and writhes and struggles to keep himself as upright as possible, but he's fighting a losing battle.

Just when Jason's sure there can't possibly be any cum left inside him, Roman snatches something from above his head with his free hand. He quirks his fingers in a way that forces Jason's mouth open, and then he shoves the thing past Jason's teeth.

As soon as the taste hits him, Jason's eyes go wide, and he thrashes with renewed energy. _Soap._ Roman has a bar of goddamn soap in his mouth, scrubbing at him like he's a naughty kid in some 50's sitcom.

“Come on, don't be a baby,” Roman grunts, working him from both ends. “I'd have let you do this yourself if I thought I could trust you, but since you insist upon putting your mouth places where it doesn't belong...”

Jason gags around the lather quickly forming in his mouth. The taste is strong and chemical and makes tears form in his eyes, and he turns his head to the side to let as much of it as possible drip out into the water below.

Roman is unrelenting, fucking him with two fingers while he holds the soap in Jason's mouth. It burns his lips and his tongue and the taste creeps down into the back of his throat, but the hand between his legs feels better than it has any right to.

“You better be grateful I'm only washing out your mouth,” Roman says. “How about you thank me?”

He pulls the bar of soap out of Jason's mouth, but Jason can only cough and splutter and spit. Roman dunks his head into the water for half a second, and Jason actually sucks in a mouthful, dutifully swishing and spitting. It doesn't do much for the taste, but it cuts back on some of the sting.

“Well?” Roman asks. He pulls his fingers out of Jason's ass and yanks him up by one arm.

His head is spinning. He recognizes this feeling as the one that overtakes him during a particularly heavy session, like a blanket of fog has settled over his mind, one that only Roman can peer through. It dulls his pain and his thoughts alike, and he wants to reach out, to grab Roman by the shirt and let this madman, this monster, guide his actions.

The taste of soap is still thick on his tongue. He spits once more, then tries his best to talk.

“Thahh... Thank you, daddy, thank—”

Roman doesn't let him finish, just pulls him around and forces his head under the still-running faucet. Jason eagerly opens his mouth, swishing mouthfuls of water around before gulping some down. It's still hot, just enough to heat him like the scotch, and any other time, it'd taste stale and terrible. Now, though, it's an oasis in the desert, clean and refreshing and practically orgasmic, and maybe one day he'll try and figure out how Roman Sionis can make _drinking bathwater_ into a sexy experience.

Too soon, he's pulled away, and Roman shuts the water off. He pulls Jason up on unsteady feet, guiding him out of the bath onto a floor that's already soaked.

“Good boy,” Roman growls into his ear, leading him out of the room without bothering to get him a towel. Jason leans heavily against him, unsure why his legs are trembling so much.

By the time Roman throws him face-down onto his huge bed, the reason why he's here is a distant mystery. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Roman unbuttons and throws off his shirt, then his belt, and then disappears out of view to go grab something from his bedside drawer.

“You're mine, you know that?” Roman asks, and Jason can feel a chill as cold lube is poured down the crack of his ass.

It's funny. In this state, all he can think is, _I just took a bath._

“Hey.” Roman rubs the length of his cock against Jason's hole, slapping his ass to get his attention. “Hear me, kid? Don't need you spacing out on me.”

“...Yours,” Jason manages, and in this moment, he doesn't have time to argue with himself. Roman gives a satisfied grunt and starts to press in, and Jason tangles his fingers in the bedsheets. “ _God,_ daddy...”

He wants to say more, wants to tell Roman to fill him up and mark him and claim him, but all he can do is sob. Roman presses his chest against Jason's back and shushes him, sounding far more tender than he has any right to. He starts to move, grinding Jason down against the bed with every thrust.

Jason tastes chemicals and feels a raw burn across every part of his body that had been submerged in the water. That burn extends to Roman's cock in his ass, stretching him open, wearing him out. He tries to remember just when his plan went so awry, but finds it hard to think of anything but the present moment, here under Roman, hot and dazed and strangely content.

He's so out of it that he doesn't even realize he's close until he starts to shudder, a warm spot forming underneath him as he stains the sheets with his cum. Roman speeds up, completely overwhelming him, and it's all Jason can do to hold onto his words, breathed out hot and sweet into his ear.

“All mine, my cute little boy, gonna fill you up, ngh, let you feel my cum... That's _right,_ lemme feel you twitch, little whore...”

Jason can do nothing but whine and let Roman use his body, practically lifeless under him save for how his body contracts at the overstimulation. It feels like hours before Roman finally comes, grunting profanities into his ear.

Before he drifts off to sleep, Jason realizes he can feel Roman's breath, but not the leather of his mask.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James Reynolds voice: uh oh, you made the wrong sucker a cuckold


	7. Trusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? good to be writing for this story again! thanks so much to everyone who's commented and expressed their love for this pairing/fic even when I wasn't actively updating it. you guys really make things worth it! I hope this new chapter is worth the wait.

By the time Jason wakes up, Roman is already gone. Waking up alone in his bed is an... interesting experience. The blankets opposite him are mussed up, but Jason himself is on top of the covers. Did they really sleep like that all night, next to each other? The thought makes Jason's head swim.

Or maybe that's just the residual headache from being manhandled. He can still taste the ghost of the soap in his mouth, can still feel Roman's fingerprints on his arms. He feels dehydrated, but as he sits up to head for the bathroom (not the one from last night, doubtless still thick with the energy of their encounter), he spots a crystalline glass of water on the bedside table. A folded note with his name written on it in delicate script sits next to it, but Jason snatches the water up before anything else.

As the edge of the glass touches his lips, he wonders if there's something inside it. Sure, if Roman wanted him dead, he had all night to do it. But wouldn't it be poetic if he died by his own hand, by making the choice to trust someone he knows can't be trusted?

“...Been reading too many shitty dramas,” he tells himself, voice raspy. Then he downs the whole thing in a few big gulps.

The note simply says, “ _We need to talk. I hope you'll wear your collar._ ”

Jason shudders and crumples it up.

* * *

 

He finds Roman in his study, chair facing the window like they're in some mafia movie. Solidifying the illusion, as soon as he enters, Roman splays a hand out and says, “Please. Sit.”

Jason chuckles. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he does as he's told nonetheless. The neckline of the shirt he wears sits low enough that his collar is in plain view, leather cool against his skin.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Roman staring out the window over the Gotham skyline. This early in the morning, the sun peeks over the horizon, giving off the impression that the sun does shine even here. By ten, it'll be high enough that the ever-present smog blots it out almost completely, but for now, it's almost nice enough to distract Jason from the distinct lack of conversation. Just when things get unbearable and he's about to speak up, Roman spins in his chair to face him.

He's got the mask on again. Jason might feel disappointed if he didn't know Roman well enough to know where he's looking despite it. Or, you know, if he cared. Right now, he can feel Roman's eyes on his collar.

“Jason,” he says, after an eternity, “what does that mean to you?”

“What does what mean to—”

“Be serious for once.”

Jason bites back the urge to insist that's not possible. He shifts in his seat, looking up at the ceiling as if it'll afford some clue as to the right answer.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, idly bringing up a hand to trail over his collar. “That I'm yours.”

“And what does being mine mean?”

Jason exhales through his nose, feeling very much like a child in the principal's office. “That you get to fuck me, I guess. And hit me. And lock me up in your crazy sex dungeon.”

“Oh, Red,” Roman says with a shake of his head. “Still tragically incompetent with words, as always. You're lucky I know you well enough to realize you've got more going in there than you let on.” He accompanies this with a tap to his temple, and Jason at least has the good sense to feel offended. “I mean, what is this to you? Being my son, my partner, my submissive? Does it mean as much to you as it means to me?”

Jason rolls his shoulders, sinking down further into his seat. He props a boot up on Roman's desk, which he stares at, but says nothing about. “Guess it depends on how much it means to you, old man.”

 _Not much,_ he thinks. But tossing the ball back to Roman will hopefully give Jason an idea about how invested he needs to make himself seem.

Because he isn't invested at all, not really. This is only a job. That's all it's ever been, despite how he may react when the lights are low and the cuffs are on.

“It means...” Roman starts, rising from his chair. He links his hands behind his back and begins to pace the room, Jason's eyes following him the whole way. “...that the two of us share something unique. That I know what you need, and I am willing to give it to you without question. And that you, in turn, give me what _I_ need.”

“So what is it that you need?” Jason asks.

Roman comes up behind him. Jason sees him approach, head tilted over the back of his chair, but he still tenses when those hands come down on the wood so close to his shoulders.

“Trust,” he says through that impassive black mask. “I need you to give yourself over to me — and only me — in all things. I need you to know that I will always do what's best for you.”

“You asking me to be exclusive?”

Roman sighs.

“You kids and your terminology. Yes, I suppose that's what I'm asking for,” he says, hands sliding off of Jason's chair so he can round the other side of his desk. “But it's not a romantic relationship that I want; that you need.”

Jason wrinkles his nose and resists the urge to tell Roman he has no clue what he _needs._ “So just a sex thing, then?”

Roman slides back into his chair. “This has never just been about sex, and you know it.”

Jason feels uncomfortable under his gaze. He sits up, both feet planted firmly back on the ground, and tries not to scratch at his neck where the collar presses against him like a ten-pound weight.

“ _You_ know that I've never liked all this cryptic bullshit.”

Roman sighs, leans back, and folds his hands across his lap. “We're never going to exchange 'I love you's,” he says. “We're never going to get married or adopt a herd of grinning little children. If you have any family to go back to, you aren't going to bring me with you and show me off.”

“Good, because I—”

“Let me finish. This isn't a relationship in any conventional sense of the word, but it is something between us that I expect to be respected. As long as you work for me, you _belong_ to me. I'll treat you like the son I never had, give you everything to make you comfortable, but in return, you will never pull any more stunts like that again.”

Jason doesn't need to ask to know he's talking about Chain. He wonders vaguely if the guy's even alive by now; from the sounds of it, Roman doesn't take too kindly to other people touching “his things.” But he'll worry about that after this excruciating conversation is over.

“Don't I get a say in this?” he asks after a long moment. “Like, lay down a few 'no more spanking me in front of people'-type ground rules?”

“I admit I was a bit overzealous. I apologize,” Roman says, not sounding very contrite. “But that's exactly what I'm talking about. You need to trust that whatever I do to you, it'll work out in your favor. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Jason thinks. He thinks about things he's thought of countless times before, he thinks about the surprising frankness of this conversation, he thinks not nearly as long as he'd like to before he gives his answer. But this is for the sake of the mission, so there's only one real way he can respond.

“...Yes.”

* * *

 

As it turns out, “trust” entails kneeling in Roman's dungeon, arms cuffed behind his back, legs spread, wearing nothing but a blindfold and his collar. His knees ache from grinding into the concrete for god knows how long; he started counting when Roman left, but after the tenth minute, he lost track. Every dripping pipe and scuttling vermin sets his nerves on edge, but, fearful of any potential surveillance, Jason doesn't dare get out of the cuffs and remove his blindfold to look around.

He starts to wonder after a while if this is all the exercise will be. Him, tied up in a dirty, bloodstained basement, jumping at every sound until the sun rises or Roman gets bored without his favorite little boytoy. That maybe the anticipation is supposed to teach him a lesson.

But no, far across the darkness, he can hear the elevator whirring, then footsteps. Voices. _More than one voice,_ and the realization makes him grind his teeth. How many times is he going to be humiliated? How many people are going to see him like this before Roman's through?

As they grow closer, the men's voices turn to hushed, excited whispers. Jason feels far too many eyes on him, raking over every inch of his exposed body. He tries with all his might to keep from squirming.

“Now.” There's no mistaking Roman's voice. “Here we are. You see, my boy has been a bit restless lately. After our little... _altercation_ at the meeting, he's been worried that none of you will be able to focus properly. That surely, you can't help but think of him in a less-than-professional manner after what you saw.”

It's not necessarily wrong, but boy, does Roman's “explanation” rile Jason up. How dare that bastard, making this seem like his idea, like his _problem?_ He exhales slowly in an attempt to keep himself calm. Around him, the muttering starts back up again.

“Us? Shucks, boss, y'ain't gotta worry about that!”

“We knows you 'n' Hood have a, uh, _special_ relationship.”

Several people snicker. Jason wants to kick their teeth in.

“'Sides, we'd never touch somethin' o' yours.”

“Good to know I have _some_ men who understand the idea of loyalty,” Roman says. Jason can imagine him glaring at Chain (but then, he hasn't heard the guy's voice yet, so maybe he's not even here). “Nevertheless, it's been weighing on my boy's mind something terrible. So we came up with a solution: all of you can play as much as you'd like tonight to get rid of any residual tension. Then we can all go back to more pressing matters. Does that sound good?”

Jason wants to scream _no_ at the top of his lungs. He wants to ruin everything for one split second, breath coming out faster. But he holds himself back, thinking there must be some sort of twist to this, some payoff Roman's setting up for him. Trust, that's the theme. If he backs out prematurely, he'll never get another chance like this again, he's sure of it.

But Roman just reassures his men through their bewilderment. He lays out rules, even, letting them know how not to mark him up and exactly what the consequences will be if any of them seriously harm him. And as time goes on, Jason realizes with sickening clarity that he actually means it. He's really going to let them do this.

And Jason? He's hard. He's mother fucking hard.

He realizes it when one of the men stoops down in front of him and grabs his cock in a thick hand, and it throbs and sends his mouth dropping open. “Hey,” the guy says, “you were right, boss. He's into it already.”

“Of course he is, idiot,” Roman says. “Now, don't keep my boy waiting. That means all of you. Go; make it good.”

Roman's footsteps retreat a few yards. Jason barely has time to imagine him taking a seat, prim and proper, legs crossed and hands folded, before he feels the presence of more men crowding around him. The one between his legs prods at his hole, and someone else tugs him by the hair, holding him close enough to hear the _zzzzzzip_ of his pants being undone.

“Oh,” he gasps, licking his lips in an attempt to rid his mouth of its dryness. “Oh, my god.”

Then the tip of a cock presses forward, and he can't say anything else. He surprises both himself and the men with how quickly he sucks it in, salivating around the guy's length. “He's _good,_ ” he says, and Jason shudders with an absolutely debauched kind of pride.

From there, everything heats up. Jason's head is pulled back and forth, and another cock slides against his cheek, making him jump. Without his sense of sight, all he can do is _feel,_ and every sensation becomes that much bigger as a result. The hands in his hair, guiding him from one cock to the next, send heat broiling in the pit of his stomach, and the slide of one dry finger inside his ass makes him keen. Someone says, “You idiot, he ain't a girl, use this,” and the new sensation of slick, cold lube on his hole makes him shudder.

The sounds, too, are almost otherworldly. He hones in on how his mouth sounds, slurping the men's cocks, on the way he gags a little when they go too deep too fast. He hears every little catch of their breath and mutter of appreciation, hears one of them slip into another language when his tip sinks down into Jason's throat.

The man between his legs doesn't even find his prostate, but the slippery slide of three lubed-up fingers thrusting in and out of him encourages him to bounce his hips. Whenever his mouth is free, he lets it hang open, tongue out, begging non-verbally for someone to fill that hole back up. And they do, and he can smell them, their musk and sweat and precum, and he moans until one of them shoots thick into his throat.

Someone teases the guy for finishing so soon, but Jason just swallows it down, licks his lips, and (feeling sorry for him, he supposes), says, “Tastes good.” Then, less altruistic, he groans, “More.”

He gets more, though not until he's manhandled into a different position. They bend him forward, someone spreading him open from behind and shoving the blunt head of their cock against his asshole. In front of him, someone pushes their cock into his mouth, and Jason _moans._

There's something about being blindfolded, he's beginning to find, that makes this whole thing much easier. He can't see anyone he's with, but they can't see his eyes, either. They can't see the desperation, or the tears, or the confusion that gave way long ago to unbridled lust. He can just _be,_ stuck in this space where others are in charge, can give in and pretend like they're anyone, he's anywhere.

But rather than lose himself to fantasy, he finds that, when the man behind him rocks his hips and sheathes himself inside, Jason is only thinking of one person. He imagines Roman, so quiet, so observant, and wonders what he might be thinking, if he's still here at all. How does he feel to see Jason's hole stretched around another man's cock? Does it turn him on, hearing him gasp, “Please, _please_ ” whenever his mouth is free? Is he hard? Is he angry? Is he gone, out banging some random woman while Jason, needy Jason, imagines him where he isn't?

It can't be healthy that the thought of Roman propels Jason to his first orgasm. None of this can be healthy, but thinking of Roman's name on his collar while his cum splatters on the ground is definitely exhilirating. He whines, shuddering when the men on either side of him continue to go to town, like he's a sex doll, an object, a possession.

Someone pulls out and comes on his face, and while it drips over his cheeks and off his chin, Jason says, “Tell me I'm good. Tell me you like it. Tell me you like your _fucking_ cum on my face, oh my _god._..”

“ _Language,_ ” someone else warns. (Jason is disappointed that it's not Roman.)

They fist a hand in his hair, while a guy says, “You saw how much he liked getting spanked. What's say we give it a try? Huh?”

“Yeah, spank the little whore,” another man grunts, and another still pushes his cock in Jason's mouth.

A hand lands on his bare ass with a _smack,_ and Jason whines. Then comes another, and another, and they don't make him count like Roman, don't bend him over their knees like Roman, but the vulgar things they say almost make up for it.

“Fucker's hard again!”

“Who knew the Red Hood was such a pain slut?”

“What a freak. Give 'im here— Suck me, bitch...”

Jason shudders and sobs, body already aching from overstimulation. The man fucking him pulls out and comes on his back with a deep groan, and the one in his mouth pulls out and spits on his face before smacking him with his cock. Jason tugs at his restraints until they cut into his wrists, wishing desperately he could jerk himself off.

He's pushed onto his back then, and someone hoists his legs up onto their waist, fucking into him harder and faster than the first man. Jason has about five seconds to howl with pleasure before a man straddles his face, balls resting heavy against his chin while he shoves his cock through parted lips. Jason sucks messily, legs twitching, arms aching underneath his body.

He can't remember the last time he felt half this good, not with anyone but Roman. Something about being the center of so many people's attention sinks into him like a high, and even though they spit on him and smack him and call him names, he eats it all up like he's never been treated better in his life.

(And maybe he hasn't.)

He comes again, splattering messily onto his stomach, and this time, it _hurts_ when the man continues to fuck him. He kicks out a little, but his legs are caught and held steady, and he feels his eyes roll into the back of his head. God, they really don't give a shit about how he feels. He couldn't escape if he tried. Right now, right here, they can do anything they want to him, and all he can do is take it. When someone pulls out to come on his lips and over his tongue, all he can do is whine, language long since lost to him.

He doesn't know how many times he comes in total, but he definitely stops ejaculating after two or three. Each orgasm rips through him like a cord tugging on the deepest parts of his body, all at once breathtakingly painful and maddeningly _good._ Some men crowd back around for another go after resting, and Jason lies like a ragdoll in their arms, letting them bend him and pull him and position him however they want. It's heaven. It's bliss. It is, really and truly, something he never would have guessed he needed.

And then, after what feels like hours, it's done. The men fall back one by one, zipping zippers and retrieving belts, and slowly but surely, Jason is left in a crumpled, sticky heap on the floor. His ragged breaths echo off of the concrete, hot and wet, and he thinks he might pass out.

Then he hears it. One single pair of footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching him. He realizes with something like happiness that he recognizes that gait.

“Daddy,” he says, straining to roll over, to look up. “Daddy— Daddy. _Daddy._ ”

“Baby,” Roman coos, combing his fingers through Jason's hair. “What a good boy. You did so well.”

“Trust,” he mutters, arching into the touch. “D-did— Did it. Trusted you.”

“Yes, you did,” Roman says, sitting him up with steady hands and pulling his blindfold off. “Now, here's your reward.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small remote control, and with one _click,_ the collars around each of his men's necks explode. They fall lifeless to the floor, adding more bloodstains to the décor, and Jason realizes with wide eyes and a sinking feeling that this encounter really won't ever leave this room.

 


	8. Stitched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to share this chapter! for a while, I've been thinking that I really need to take things to the next level in this story, and I feel like I've done it now. it's a bit of a departure from the status quo, and I know it's risky, but I hope it pays off.
> 
> okay, no more babbling. enjoy!

Jason’s smoked more in the past few days than he has in both his lives. His lungs aren’t accustomed to it, rejecting the invasion with more than a few coughing fits, so he ends up spending most of his time staring at the cherry as it creeps its way toward his fingers. It’s a small comfort to watch something else burn for a change.

People are dead because of him. That’s nothing new, but it feels different this time. He tries to tell himself that they don’t deserve to occupy his thoughts, that it’s not like their _only_ crime was having sex with him. He knows full well what Black Mask’s cronies get up to. Still, it feels like, if they had to die, he’d have preferred it happen as a direct result of them, say, blowing up an orphanage or something.

On the roof of Roman’s building, Jason sucks down one more mouthful of smoke, quickly igniting the rest of his cigarette up to the filter. He lets the heat stagnate in his lungs for a few moments, then snuffs out the view of nighttime Gotham with a thick mouthful of smoke. When he rises and crushes the butt of the cigarette under his heel, he imagines doing the same to the embers of unwanted thoughts that crackle and burn in his head.

_Roman, hands stroking his face, wiping away tears with his thumbs._

_Days later, sucking Roman off while he reads a book with one hand and traces patterns into his collar with the other._

_Meetings spent sitting as close to Roman as possible, more powerful than the other men but still subservient to his boss; a blood-red jewel embedded into Black Mask’s throne._

He hesitates at the door to the stairwell for two seconds. Once he opens it, it’s back to that life, and who knows when he’ll be able to breathe like this again?

Two seconds is all it takes. In the distance, something streaking from rooftop to rooftop catches his eye. At first, his heart nearly stops, but he doesn’t see sharp ears or a billowing, shadow-black cape. Nausea melts into confusion when he realizes he’s not looking at Batman gliding through the Gotham sky, but Nightwing.

Nightwing must see him too, but whether it’s by chance or design, Jason can’t tell. He watches as Dick perches on a nearby rooftop and gives him a near-imperceptible nod. Jason glances quickly at the moon, estimating the time, and decides he can spare a few minutes. He puts on his hood and follows Dick at a safe distance as he leaps off the side of the skyscraper and swings away.

 

Dick leads him into an abandoned apartment building in the bad side of town, one far from the glitzy grime of Roman’s complex. Ambient light from flashing neon signs and people in adjacent units pulling all-nighters brightens up the dark, barren room.

“Thought you were back in Blüdhaven,” Jason says by way of greeting.

“Something came up,” Dick says. “I needed to get away for a while.”

Jason takes off his hood, in the hopes that somehow the scent of weed and filth will cut through his senses and dull down his jealousy. “And what do you want from me?”

“An answer.” Dick turns to him, and even through his whiteout lenses, Jason can see that he’s tense. “I heard talk that a good half-dozen of Black Mask’s lieutenants turned up dead recently. I’ve also heard that you’re working for him.”

“I didn’t kill them,” Jason says, too quickly. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans against the wall next to the open window. Calmer, he goes on, “I’m undercover. Thought B would’ve told you.”

“I know that.” Dick frowns. “I was just— Wondering, is all.”

“Wondering if I’m falling back on old habits.”

Dick’s stern silence says it all. Jason scoffs.

“I _didn’t_ kill them,” he says again. “Not that it’s any of your business if I did. I’ve got the big guy’s permission; I don’t need yours.”

“I’m not trying to accuse you of anything,” Dick says, holding out his palms. It’s supposed to be a pacifying gesture, but Jason thinks that, much like most of Dick’s attempts at acting brotherly toward him, it’s too little, too late. “I just want to understand.”

Jason pushes away from the wall and turns toward the window.

“Like I said,” he calls over his shoulder, “not your business.”

“Jason, what’s that around your neck?”

He freezes.

The way Dick says it implies he’s been sitting on the question for a while, reluctant to bring it up. Jason closes his hand around the front of his collar. Like an idiot, he wore a low-necked top today, rather than his usual body armor. He hadn’t been intending to leave Roman’s building, after all. And he’s gotten so used to the feeling of the collar around his neck that he hadn’t even remembered he was wearing it until Dick pointed it out.

“...That’s none of your business, either,” he says after a tense few moments of silence.

He hears Dick take a few steps closer. “Jay, c’mon. If it’s all part of the gig, you can tell me, can’t you?”

Jason turns around slowly, narrowing his eyes. “‘If’?”

It’s Dick’s turn to fold his arms.

“I saw you two together,” he says simply.

Jason tries and fails to keep the surprise off his face. His mind races; when have he and Roman expressed their form of affection in public? All the cronies who saw the extent of their relationship are dead.

But then he remembers Roman’s penthouse, with its huge windows and perpetually-open curtains. With how tall the building is, it’s usually not an issue; the other skyscrapers are all just far enough away that nobody in their higher floors would be able to see into Roman’s place without binoculars, and people on lower floors were right out.

Vigilantes, though, with enhanced scope vision, ones used to traversing the rooftops to get around…

He feels sick.

“Tell me what’s going on, Jason,” Dick says. He tries to put a hand on Jason’s arm, but it feels more patronizing than familial, so Jason pulls away. “If he’s hurting you, you don’t have to keep—”

“Oh, my god.” Jason stalks away, hands on the sides of his head, gripping at his hair. He looks down, clawing at the back of his neck like he might be able to yank his soul out of his body and away from this horrible, horrible conversation. “Oh my god, you are seriously not asking me this right now.”

“I seriously am,” Dick counters. “Little Wing—”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason says. Then, “When did you see us?”

“Uh… Two days ago? Does it matter?”

Jason paces a little bit more, searching through his mental catalogs to pull up the memory.

_The two of them crashing into Roman’s bedroom after a long day of shared glances and pointed innuendo._

_Jason, desperate for something to replace the numbness inside, climbing on top of Roman and riding him hard and fast._

_Roman pinning him down to the bed, one hand on his arm and the other around his neck, quickly and violently finishing inside of him._

_Jason licking sweat and cum off of Roman’s cock before curling up at the foot of the bed._

His face colors with the recollection. Quietly, he asks, “How long were you watching?”

“Long enough,” Dick says, then immediately amends his statement. “Too long. I’m sorry. I should’ve come to help you, I—”

Despite himself, Jason barks out a laugh. It’s cold and it’s biting and it’s wrong, all wrong.

“Did I really look like I needed your help?”

Dick stills. The implication settles around them like a dense fog. Jason watches him open and close his mouth, doubling back on what he wants to say a few times.

Finally, he says, “It really doesn’t help your case if you didn’t.”

“My _case?_ ” Jason scoffs. “I knew it, I’m on fucking trial again. Be real, did B put you up to this? Check up on the family fuck-up, is that it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s a yes.” He slams his arms down against his sides. “Christ, I knew there was no way he’d trust me with anything—”

“I’m not asking for Batman, Jason,” Dick says, taking a step forward. “He doesn’t know what I saw; I’m asking for me. Why are you sleeping with Roman Sionis? Why are you— _wearing_ things like this?”

Dick reaches for his collar. Jason smacks his hand away with far more force than necessary, filled with the sudden, inexplicable thought that someone else touching it would tarnish it irreparably. He regrets it as soon as he does it, because when Dick draws his arm back, he does so with a renewed look of suspicion.

Jason swallows. “None of your business,” he says softly. “It’s none of your—”

“It is my business if you’re letting it cloud your judgment,” Dick says, squaring up to his full height. “Sleeping with a villain is one thing, but if this has anything to do with those men dying—”

“What the _fuck_ are you saying?” Jason asks, raising his voice. He matches Dick’s pose, with the added advantage of a few extra inches of height. Nose-to-nose with him, he snarls. “I cozy up to Black Mask and tell him to knock off his best guys for me, that it? Jesus. It’s not my fault they’re dead. It’s _not._ ”

Even before he’s finished speaking, Jason regrets it. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything, and how incriminating is that?

“No,” Dick says, terse, like he’s dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. “But if you’re getting distracted by whatever you two have going on, I—”

Jason cuts him off with a punch to his face. His knuckles throb from the force of the blow, but Dick straightens up after a second like it hardly affects him at all. Not for the first time, Jason gets the distinct impression that he’s the only one who feels _anything_ in this family.

“Real rich coming from you,” he says, short of breath already. “Like you and B can fuck however many crooks you want, but I’m some dumb slut who forgets all his training the second I get laid.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Dick says. Even though he doesn’t hit back, his hands are balled into fists at his sides. “But it says a lot, how defensive you’re getting.”

Jason gapes, then laughs, and then, with a shout, leaps at Dick. They collide in a flurry of fists and knees and boots, Jason doing most of the attacking while Dick blocks and counters. Every failed blow backfires on Jason, robbing him of the satisfaction of doing some damage. By the time Dick finally goes on the offensive and kicks him a few feet across the room, Jason feels more frustrated than he had before they started.

“Fuck you,” he says, scrambling to his feet, stomach churning with pain. He spits on the floor. “Fuck you, thinking you can just come back here and barge in like the nosy-ass perfectionist you are. You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about.”

“You’re right,” Dick says, mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t have any right to tell you what to do. This isn’t my city. But it _is_ Bruce’s.”

All the heat drains out of Jason’s body like he just took a shot of liquid nitrogen. “Don’t.”

“I can’t just keep this from him, if this is how you’re going to—”

“Do _not_ tell him!” Jason shouts, closing the distance between them so he can shove Dick up against the opposite wall. He hates that Dick just stands there and lets him. “Are you crazy? All the fucking time I spent here working this case— He’ll never trust me again. Do you understand that? Not when it’s me!”

“Jason—”

“No! You think you know everything, but you’ve got no fucking clue.” Jason’s hands, balled into tight fists in Dick’s spandex, begin to tremble. Though he tries hard to feel more anger than anything, tears prick at his eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the god damned black sheep of the family. If you take this from me—”

“What am I taking?” Dick asks, forceful. “A case? A fuck buddy? If you would just calm down and tell me what the hell you’re doing with Black Mask, what you’re trying to accomplish with this—”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Jason says. He looks away from Dick’s face, no longer able to stand the stoic judgment of his whiteout lenses. “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you, so just let me handle this, okay?”

“...Just answer me this one question,” Dick says. “Are you sleeping with him because you feel like you have no other choice? Or are you doing it because— because you like that? Being treated that way?”

All at once, Jason feels the abrupt crashing of shame over him, heavy as a thousand tons of water. Something about how Dick says it, “ _being treated that way,_ ” hammers home just how unusual his tastes are. How is he supposed to explain that he likes being tied down and beaten by someone as reprehensible as Roman Sionis? How can he justify his enjoyment? Things would be so much simpler if he were being raped, he thinks. At least then he wouldn’t be at fault.

He backs away, shaking his head and laughing a humorless laugh. He runs his fingers through his bangs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes to try and stem the tide of tears he feels coming on.

“You know what?” he says after a moment, voice trembling. “Do what you want. Just do whatever the fuck you want, as usual.”

He crosses the room, snatches up his hood, and punches a hole in the drywall on his way out.

* * *

 

By the time he gets back to Roman’s building, he feels as if his collar is burning through his neck. Just a little while longer, and maybe he’ll get to experience the sweet bliss of being decapitated, of no longer having to exist in this world where everything always goes so wrong so fast.

He realizes with creeping certainty that he doesn’t know how to feel. And for the past few months, only one person has been able to organize his scattered, hectic thoughts for him.

“Roman.”

Roman looks up from his desk, immediately attentive the second he spots Jason’s face. Stupidly, he’d started crying on the way back; he feels how swollen his eyes must be. He has to hold onto the door frame for purchase, shoulders heavy with what seems like the weight of the world.

“...Daddy,” he amends a second later. It feels right. He really hates how right it feels.

“Oh, son,” Roman says, sitting up and spreading his legs. “What’s the matter? Come here and tell me all about it.”

It sounds so genuine, contrary to everything he believes about the type of man Roman Sionis is. A sob slips out of Jason’s mouth, then another, and he presses a hand to his beet-red face to try and mask some of his shame as he makes his way across the room. Each step has a dragging, dreamlike quality, like he’s walking through molasses. He only feels that weight lift when he collapses onto Roman’s lap.

Roman tenses for just a second, before his hands land authoritatively on Jason’s back. He rubs soothing circles into him; Jason sobs harder when he thinks out of the blue that his biological father never showed so much affection.

“...I don’t wanna think anymore,” he says after a few embarrassing moments of savoring the feeling. He balls his hands into Roman’s well-pressed suit, hating himself for being selfish enough to wrinkle it. “I— I don’t know what to do. Daddy, please just tell me what to do…”

It’s a show of weakness that feels extreme even between the two of them. They’re not knee-deep in a session, not spurred on by the murky haze of arousal. Months ago, Jason would have been aghast at the thought of showing even a fraction of such real, intense emotion to Black Mask. But tonight, all he can think of is how close he is to losing this, losing _everything._ Roman’s touch, Bruce’s trust, Dick’s respect; it’s all crumbling down around him, and he doesn’t know what else to do but flail around and try to grab onto the only steady thing in his life.

“My poor boy,” Roman says, warm against his ear. “Let daddy take care of everything.”

 

He clings to Roman’s side the whole elevator ride down to the basement. He has to be coaxed to let go long enough for Roman to slide his jacket off of his arms. Once that’s gone, Jason frowns down at his chest, with its red bat shining like a beacon. It feels too much like a brand, like a mark of ownership; he tugs at the fabric with every intention of ripping it in half.

He senses Roman staring at him, burning a hole through the top of his head.

“I hate ‘im,” he says by way of explanation. “All of ‘em.”

“Shh, Red,” Roman says, laying a hand on top of Jason’s own. Jason reluctantly lowers his arms, then raises them again when Roman tugs the shirt up and off. Rather than discard it, he holds it up, dangling it in front of Jason’s face like an enemy flag. “Tell me, what did the Bat do to my boy?”

Jason swats at it. “Don’t wanna think about him. Daddy…”

Roman clicks his tongue and tilts Jason’s head up with a finger under his chin. “You know I get concerned.”

“I just…” Jason looks away, even if Roman’s mask prevents him from looking into his eyes. He gulps. “...I wanna forget how he feels on me.”

Roman finally folds the shirt and tosses it over a nearby metal bar.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I think we can manage that.”

 

Minutes or hours or decades later, all Jason knows is pain.

He howls every time Roman’s whip comes down on his skin. The chains spread taut from one end of the room to the other keep him spread-eagled and dangling by his wrists; there’s enough leeway for him to stand flat-footed if he wants, but he’s sapped of strength, and revels in the feeling of his muscles stretching out whenever he lets his body sag.

From head to toe, he’s completely drenched. Sweat covers every inch of his body that isn’t sticky with blood. His jeans are soaked through with piss after one particularly ghastly strike saw him lose control of his bladder. And he tastes salt from all the tears and snot that drip down into his mouth.

Sometimes, when he looks at the concrete under his feet and sees it stained with his own blood, he thinks of the warehouse across the ocean where Joker stole his life from him. When that happens, and he feels the ghost of his mother judging him just out of sight, he screams for Roman to hit him harder.

The echoing _click… click… click_ of Roman’s dress shoes signify his return to Jason’s front. Wearing a white apron and gloves to shield his suit from blood, he looks like an angel. Jason sees his salvation on the popper of the whip.

He becomes aware of how ragged his breaths are when Roman takes him by the chin. A careful thumb strokes away the tears on one side of his face.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, not for the first time tonight.

Jason remembers his other answers. “ _That whip,_ ” and “ _Batman,_ ” and “ _it hurts it hurts it_ hurts” have all come up.

For the first time, he says, “You.”

Roman pets the side of his face. “Good boy.”

As soon as he lets him go, Jason’s head drops down like all the bones in his neck have disappeared. He looks at the map of red on his chest and wonders if Roman will be proud of him all over again every time he sees the resulting scars. He did good, didn’t he? He did so good.

“I think,” Roman says, crossing the room to where one of his chains end, “that’s all for tonight. We don’t want you bleeding out.”

“Yes, daddy,” Jason mutters.

Roman releases one chain, sending Jason slumping to his knees. The other comes next. Whether Jason leans forward or sits up straight, his wounds scream all the same, so he wobbles back and forth in woozy, half-awake confusion.

“Good boy,” Roman says, soft but firm as he removes what little remains of Jason’s clothes. “Stay like that for just a little while longer. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Entirely naked, Jason kneels on the ground and uses every bit of his strength to keep himself upright. He does a pretty good job of it until Roman turns on a hose and starts to rinse him down with freezing water. It cuts into him like knives, dislodging coagulated clumps of blood and letting wounds bleed anew, all of it running in a pinkish mess into a drain set into the floor. He whimpers, then he wails, and curls in on himself gradually until Roman has to yank him up by the arm to finish washing him off.

The most torturous part of it is that Roman doesn’t speak at all until it’s over. But when he does, the relief hits him tenfold; he collapses onto Roman’s lap face-down, while Roman pets his hair and mutters, “That’s my boy. You did so well. Lay down for daddy.”

No matter how he moves, Jason’s body throbs with pain. He feels something light and elated grow in his chest when he realizes how long he’ll get to live with the reminder of what they did tonight. Even if he puts that terrible bat symbol back on his chest, his skin underneath is Roman’s and Roman’s alone. Batman can’t take that from him, no matter how hard he tries.

Gradually, Roman’s hands move from Jason’s hair to his back. He doesn’t expect the first twinge of pain as a needle pierces his skin, but it ends up relaxing him more than anything. Some part of him screams that that’s not good, that none of this is any good, but then Roman pulls some thread through his skin and pierces him again, and he’s content to let that voice drown underneath a sea of endorphins.

A few minutes into the stitching session, Roman speaks up, his voice soft and liquid like the world’s most soothing ointment.

“I worry about you, Jason,” he says. “I worry about what happened to make you hurt so bad.”

Jason tries and fails to think of when Bruce has ever said anything like that to him.

“I mean, look at this,” Roman goes on when Jason doesn’t answer. “Look at all the work I have to do to put you back together again.”

“King’s horses ‘n’ men,” Jason murmurs into his arms.

“The king’s?” Roman asks, snipping the thread and then starting to work on another gash. “Or the knight’s?”

Jason whines. “No knight, daddy.”

“Alright, alright,” Roman says. “But I hope that one day you’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me just what that terrible Bat did to my precious boy.”

Jason focuses on “precious” and lets a lazy grin spread across his face.

 

It takes hours to stitch him up — he thinks. Jason is in constant awe of how steadfast Roman’s hands work, even doing something so tedious. He gets to see them in action when he works on his front, propped up against the wall while Roman drags thread through his skin.

More than once, Jason marvels at how fake it looks. The way his skin stretches with every stitch makes him think of latex props, ones that don’t bleed when you poke through them. Somehow, he doesn’t bleed much while Roman works; he wonders briefly if he has nothing left inside of him, if Roman somehow switched out his insides while he wasn’t looking, like re-stuffing a teddy bear after you give it a new fabric heart.

Immediately after Roman snips off the final bit of thread, Jason’s hands start to roam over his body. He feels every bump, every dip, every lingering bit of wetness. The stitches, black as Roman’s suits and his masks and his presence, are a foreign entity that don’t belong in his body. Despite it all, he loves them.

“Jason, what are you— Don’t touch those—”

“More.”

His voice comes out raspy, either from disuse during the stitching process or overuse during his whipping beforehand. When Roman doesn’t speak, he meets his eyes as best as he can.

“Daddy, more. Please.”

Roman makes a puzzled noise on the tail end of an exhale. “There’s no more, Jason. You’re all done.”

Jason frowns; even though he must be dehydrated, some impossible tears well up in his eyes.

“ _More._ ”

“More how? Everything’s closed up, sweet pea.”

Jason reaches up with trembling hands until his fingers brush against his collar. They trace the raised embroidery there — _R.S._

“...More.”

“Oh,” Roman says. “ _Oh._ ”

 

More time. More pain. More thread blacker than black, dark enough that it pulls in all the light around it.

Roman has a talent for handcrafting that goes far beyond the detail work he usually puts into his more creative tortures. In another time, another place, he could be in a different line of work, one creating breathtaking pieces of art with precise, delicate movements.

But it’s okay that he isn’t. That means Jason gets him all to himself. He gets to _be_ the artwork, the canvas, the beautiful thing that Roman creates.

After an eternity that doesn’t last nearly long enough, Jason stretches his legs out and admires the end result: two beautiful pieces of stitch-work, one on either of his thighs.

 _R. S._ A collar in his skin, that nobody can take away.

When it’s all said and done, he’s finally able to drift off into a deep, floating sleep.


	9. Captivated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> works on more of this instead of the 539538902 WIPs I have half-started
> 
> thanks so much for all your comments, guys! I've been feeling really inspired lately, and a lot of it is thanks to you.

All Jason knows when he wakes up is pain.

He feels it, bone-deep and aching, before he even opens his eyes. There's a smoothness against his cheek that tells him he's in a bed, one of the ones with silk pillowcases and Egyptian cotton sheets. And yet, despite that, he feels like he's lying in a vat of knives.

It takes him a few moments to gather up enough energy to stir, and more still to try and sit up. Occasionally, he'll have to pull harder where spots of dried blood attach his skin to the blankets. By the time he's upright, he feels like he just got out of a fight with 12 Kryptonians.

The night before slowly floods back into his head as he drifts into full consciousness. After meeting with Dick, he doesn't remember much; there's a Roman-shaped sieve in his memories, only allowing him bits and pieces no matter how hard he tries to focus. More than anything, he remembers an overwhelming desperation, a yearning to be owned and controlled that overtook every bit of rational thought.

His stomach drops when he finally looks down at himself. His chest is a mess of gashes held together by sutures, with ugly bruising dotting the skin in between. He still has deep red marks around his wrists from where his shackles bit into him. And his legs...

God. He's gonna be sick. Had he really begged for that? Had those stitches, weaving under and over his skin, really brought him bliss last night? Jason trails his fingers over the embroidered initials, suddenly overcome with the desire to scratch them all out. He wonders if the marks will scar; wonders afterward whether Jason in the future will look at those scars with pride.

So lost in his thoughts, the sudden sound of a door creaking open takes him by surprise. He looks up with wide eyes to see Roman nudging his way through with a tray in his hands. When Roman sees him sitting up, he freezes.

“I knew it,” he says a moment later, shoulders sagging under the tailored sleeves of his suit. “I knew you'd wake up as soon as I left.”

Jason frowns, then looks around, spotting a chair beside his bed that he hadn't noticed before. Had Roman really sat there all night with him? The notion is absurd enough to make him bury his face in his hands.

“Stop,” he mutters, listening to Roman pad in and set the tray down on the bedside table. He doesn't look up even when something freezing cold presses against one of the deeper wounds on his back. “ _Stop_ it.”

For once, Roman sounds truly inquisitive, like his omniscience is finally failing him. “Stop what?”

“Being— Being like this,” Jason says. Immediately, he feels inarticulate and stupid. “Being so... _nice._ 'S fake. I hate it.”

“Now,” Roman says, adjusting the ice pack in a way that makes Jason hiss through his teeth, “why would you say that?”

Jason takes a breath to try and get himself under control. He refuses to get emotional so soon after waking up.

“You're not a nice person. 'M not stupid, Roman.”

“No, you're not,” Roman says, “and no, I'm not. But I take care of my own.”

Jason shifts a few agonizing inches until his knees are bent enough for him to rest his forehead against them. Roman moves the ice pack to start numbing another of his wounds. They sit in silence for what could be minutes or hours; with Jason's mind such a chaotic mess, he can't be sure. Even a few seconds' worth of introspection seems to stretch on for an agonizing length of time.

How lucky he is, then, that Roman drags him back out of it.

“Didn't he do the same?”

Jason blinks. He tries to remember where their conversation had left off, but in the amount of time it took for Roman to speak, he's had countless imaginary conversations in his head.

“Huh...?”

“The Bat. I know you have history with him, Jason. Didn't he take care of his boys?”

Jason shivers, and tries to cover it up with a snort. “Please.”

Roman's free hand comes up to brush at his bangs, like he's petting a cat. Jason turns his head away, but it does nothing to dissuade him.

“He's the one responsible for how upset you got last night,” Roman says, so soft that, if Jason didn't know him, he'd almost think of it as sweet. “He's the reason I had to work so hard to settle you down. People may call me a monster for owning all those things I used to break your skin, but I'm not the one who _hurt_ you, am I?”

Jason shudders freely this time. It's sickening to think of a world where Black Mask is a hero and Batman is a villain, but his life is so topsy-turvy right now that it almost fits. He wants to fight for Batman's honor, wants to tell both Roman and himself that he's not as bad as he's cracked up to be, but...

But that's not good for his “yanking Batman's wings” image?

But Roman really _did_ pick up all his embarrassing pieces last night?

But it's not true—?

He sighs and buries his head deeper into his legs. Roman coos at him, giving his hair a gentle tug.

“I know, son, I know it's hard, trying to think all this through,” he says. “But I'm here. Daddy's got you.”

Something inside Jason shatters and floods his insides with a hot, melted emotion that spreads through all of his limbs like magma. Before he can stop himself, he says, “I used to be Robin.”

Roman stills. He leaves the ice pack in one spot for a little too long, until the cold starts to burn.

“Oh?”

Jason erupts.

“I did everything for him,” he says, voice already thick with the promise of tears. “He was my whole— my whole _fuckin'_ world, y'know? I'm an orphan. I slept in Crime Alley and ate goddamn moldy bread out of dumpsters. And then he comes along, and he says he'll make me _better_ than I am, and I just— I believe him, like some stupid idiot.”

Roman says nothing, so Jason goes on.

“But it's not true, is it? It can't ever be true, because I can never be _him._ The first Robin. Mr. Perfect. He loves—” Jason catches himself with with his tongue on the roof of his mouth, Dick's name caught in his throat. “— _Nightwing._ Loves him more 'n anyone else. He won't admit it, but everyone can tell.”

“So he neglected you in favor of his first child?” Roman asks, spreading soothing cold up and down his aching back.

“That's the crazy thing,” Jason says, raising his head to wipe at his eyes and laugh. He sniffs in an attempt to keep his face from getting overrun with snot, and continues, “Nightwing didn't even live with us back then. He wanted nothing to do with Batman! But he was still there, right? Like a shadow. I could never measure up, no matter what I did. A-and then...”

Roman cups his face. “And then?”

Jason, hating himself, leans in. Roman's thumb strokes back and forth over the ball of his cheek. He thinks, _fuck it._

“Then I died.”

It's not the first time he's said it, and it won't be the last, but the admission feels intimate under Roman's touch. He's never been one to shy away from his feelings about his death, but everything's always presented as a joke or an insult or a not-so-friendly reminder when he needs to guilt one of the Bats about something. It's never been honest, not in any way that matters.

“I died,” he says, “and he replaces me. _Me._ His _son!_ O-or at least, I thought I was. And then I come back, and he never got revenge, never tried, not even when it was me. I mean, how _fucked up_ is that? He should've just let me rot in the gutter, it would've hurt less.”

By the time he's finished, tears are spilling down his face, but Jason feels more rage than anything. The wounds from that time sting anew, and Roman was right: they hurt far worse than any of his whip marks.

“...Oh,” Roman says, “ _Jason_. How ungrateful. For a father to do that to his boy...”

He extends a hand in what looks like an invitation for an embrace, but Jason shakes his head, huffing out laughter through his sobs.

“You killed your parents,” he says. “What business do _you_ got, acting all shocked about my fucked-up family?”

“From the sounds of it, I'm not the only one who's ever had patricide on his mind,” Roman counters.

Jason clamps his lips together and flashes a smile that looks more like a grimace.

“Fuck you,” he says, and buries his face in Roman's neck, clinging to him until his muscles cry out in pain.

  
  


They part after Jason thoroughly snots up Roman's collar. While Roman leaves to fetch himself some new clothes, Jason showers, clearing away sticky clumps of blood that had seeped out of his deeper wounds during the night. He contemplates grabbing some scissors and cutting out the embroidery. After all, that stuff can't hold up for too long, can it? Not when it's on the surface like that. Then again, Roman used surgical sutures instead of embroidery thread...

He resolves to do it later, fastening his collar back up on the way out of the bathroom.

The bedroom is still empty by the time he gets there. Leave it to Roman to take more time primping and picking out a suit than Jason takes to clean his whole body. He carefully maneuvers back onto the bed, where the bloodied sheets have been changed. On the tray next to the ice pack are some pills and a glass of water, which Jason downs without a second thought.

By the time he starts to wonder whether he should attempt to throw some clothes on — it's weird being naked, but his whole body aches — the door to the room cracks open again.

“Wow,” Jason says, taking in Roman's new, near-identical black suit. “It's like you're a whole different person. I must say, that shade really brings out your eyes.”

“Brat,” Roman says, and Jason grins. “Now I'm second-guessing myself. Take it before I change my mind.”

Before Jason can ask what he's supposed to take, Roman approaches him and holds out a package wrapped in simple brown paper and some string. Jason grabs it, filled with a staggering sense of deja-vu before he even attempts to unwrap it.

“This is— You said we weren't—”

“Don't think this changes anything,” Roman says, taking a seat on the chair by the bed. He crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap. “Daddy likes to spoil his boy, that's all.”

Jason huffs, blowing his bangs out of his face to try to seem disinterested and teenagerish. He settles back gingerly against the cool headboard and begins to undo the strings. He undoes the horizontal one first, then the vertical one, and from there, it's easy to unfold the sturdy construction paper.

For a second, he swears his heart stops. Shaking fingers trace the spines of the three-volume book set that now sits in his lap — _Pride and Prejudice,_ by Jane Austen.

“These are—”

“First editions, yes,” Roman says. “I'll never understand why you're so fascinated with those girly novels, but it'll give the copy from my library a rest.”

Jason barely hears the last bit over the rushing in his ears. For a moment, his mind is seized with panic: had he said too much? Was Roman somehow able to intuit that he and Batman are Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne, and from there, discover their old hobby of collecting first editions?

No. No, that's insane. His records from his time as Bruce Wayne's ward have been thoroughly purged, and besides, they never told anyone from the outside about their books. Plus, Jason figures, if Roman knew who the Batman was, he'd be a lot more smug right now, at the very least.

But even once that worry is ushered away, that leaves Jason with one very important question: how the hell does he react to this?

Slowly, cautiously, he cracks open the cover of the first volume. The scent of old paper hits him full-force, and memories of his time spent in Bruce's library descend on him like bats dropping out of the inky night sky. He had thought those days marked the happiest times of his life. He assumed no one else but Bruce and Alfred would ever care for him enough to drop thousands of dollars for some musty old classics.

He covers his mouth to keep quiet, rearing back before two fresh, fat teardrops can fall on the pages.

His heart twists up in ways he never thought were possible. Jason doesn't know whether he's Icarus or Lucifer or just a garden-variety loser; he just knows that he's falling, fast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun game: find a checklist on abuse and tick off every box Roman's managed to fit himself into. it's subtle sometimes, but it's there. I'm interested to see how much that shines through, even during deceptively fluffy chapters like this. :)


	10. Infected

In hindsight, Jason should’ve stayed in bed with Elizabeth and Darcy. He’d been ready for a few days off, as a matter of fact. But one sentence in, he’d come to the unsettling conclusion that Roman was, himself, a single man in possession of a good fortune, and he’d been unable to continue with that thought floating around in his mind.

Working was supposed to be a return to normalcy, an escape from all the whips and chains and big glass windows that spilled secrets out to the world. Underground, running with members of the gang who knew him only as Black Mask’s second-in-command, he felt secure. In the stuffy confines of meeting rooms that stunk like cigarettes and unwashed leather and B.O., he could breathe.

For the first few days, he forced himself to ignore the steady, burning pain emanating from his torso. He’d cut out the embroidery — tugging the threads through his skin slowly, trying to memorize how they felt going in and coming out — and the pinpricks left behind had started to heal without much scarring. He’d be fine. He could ignore the hot, burning ache from his whip wounds, ignore the way he’d have to unstick his bloody shirt from his skin at the end of a long day.

That’s what he told himself all the way up until the moment he passed out from fever in the middle of a meeting.

He awakes in the same bed as before, in the room he’s slowly begun to think of as “his.” The three volumes of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ sit on his bedside table next to more water and pills, as if mocking him. He can scarcely mutter a delirious “Fuck you” before the fever takes him again.

 

It’s hard to tell how much time passes like that, constantly fading between stomach-churning consciousness and an uneasy rest that doesn’t quite feel like sleep. Dreams overtake him like waves of bog water, filling his nose and mouth and lungs until all he knows is blackness and terror. He never remembers much of what those nightmares are like, except that they all include Batman, or Roman, or maybe both.

He suspects he sees Roman in part because Roman is the one who comes to him in his scattered few moments of wakefulness, always ready with a spoonful of soup or a new spool of bandages. Jason is most lucid when Roman cleans his wounds out, particularly the deep one across his left shoulder blade. It’s an excruciating process, Roman methodically squeezing the edges until more blood than pus comes out (if the wet rags he tosses away are anything to go by). Without fail, Jason is always awake by the end, rearing up like an untamed bull until Roman’s steady hand flat on his back forces him to yield.

Though he can never quite make out the words, he knows Roman talks to him. The lilt and curve of his tone threads its way through Jason’s ears and wraps safely around his core, something familiar to hold onto as he drifts back to sleep.

 

Jason doesn’t remember waking up, nor does he remember when Roman entered the room. It dawns on him like consciousness dawns on an infant for the first time, with a sort of unconcerned acceptance. He realizes bit by bit that he’s on his stomach, and that dip in the mattress by his side is there because that’s where Roman’s sitting. He drags one finger in soft, tingling strips down Jason’s back, in short little patterns that Jason assumes match up with his remaining whip marks.

Though the one on his shoulder still throbs, he feels good, mostly. At the very least, he no longer feels like he has a constant fire burning on his back, suffocating him with its heat.

Jason burps, waits a few seconds to make sure he isn’t about to vomit, and then speaks.

“Worst. Nap.  _ Ever. _ ”

Roman keeps tracing his back. Every now and then, his finger catches on a scab or a raised scar, and Jason’s nerves explode with a fresh wave of pleasure-pain. For whatever reason, it relaxes him.

“You always push yourself too hard,” Roman says. “Stupid boy. Where would you be without me?”

Maybe he should take it as an insult, but Jason doesn’t think it’s meant as one. “Stupid” may as well be one of his pet names by now.

He sighs. “Probably in a dive bar, surrounded by cute girls who all wanna touch my muscles.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a preference for the fairer sex  _ now, _ ” Roman says, tapping a line down his spine. It makes Jason shiver.

“...No, daddy.”

Roman reaches up to give the top of his head a few quick scratches, then goes back to mapping out his wounds. Jason finds himself smiling into the crook of his elbow, content for just a moment.

That moment crashes down around him when reality sets back in.

“Wait, how long was I out?” he asks, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Roman none-too-gently shoves him back down. “Sit. It’s been four days. Don’t worry, we haven’t crashed and burned in the half-week you’ve been indisposed.”

“No, I mean—” Jason gulps. Four days out is four days for Dick to tell Bruce about him, four days for them to potentially plan some siege against Roman. He wouldn’t put it past those idiots to blow his cover if they thought they’d be doing some “good” for him, the poor little fucked-up dumbass who can’t be trusted to do anything on his own.

“You’re pale,” Roman says. “I’m going to guess it’s not from fever this time. What is it, son?”

God, the precision with which he uses that word. It strikes Jason like a marksman’s bullet every time. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place: which father figure does he disappoint this go-round?

He glances up at Roman, feels the warmth from the hand on his shoulder.

_ At least, _ he thinks,  _ Roman’s actually here for me. _

“We— I— I might’ve… fucked up,” he starts.

“Color me surprised,” Roman says, in the flattest way possible.

Jason smacks at his knee with the back of his hand. “Shut up. I’m serious. I… They know.”

Roman’s hand tenses a little on his shoulder. “Who? Know what?”

“My— Nightwing,” Jason says. The words feel like lead, heavy when they spill out of his mouth. “And Batman, probably, by now. That we’re… together. Or whatever it is we are.”

The hand eases its grip a little. “Should I expect a problem?”

“Yeah. No. I dunno,” Jason admits, splaying his hands out in front of him. “Like they have any say what I do or who I do it with. They just think ‘cause we were ‘family’ once, that they own me forever. Y’know?”

It stings to say it, as if he’s denouncing the batfamily entirely. He doesn’t want to go  _ that _ far, of course (even though, logically, he knows he can’t have both them and Roman). But he has to keep up his cover, right? Make it seem like they’re an annoying nuisance better left to his past.

“I see.” Roman tugs idly at a few strands of Jason’s hair near the nape of his neck. “What do you suppose Batman will do to get his precious little boy out of the evil Black Mask’s clutches?”

Jason inhales too sharply, tries to play it off as a yawn. The thought of himself as some trapped hostage shouldn’t turn him on that much.

“I… I dunno,” he says again. “It’s not like I— I mean, I’ve never really been in this situation before…”

“Cute boy. Were you a virgin before you met me?”

Jason’s cheeks go bright red. “No! I mean, I didn’t really— I never had time for that stuff, so I—”

Roman chuckles, cutting him off before he can embarrass himself any further. “I understand, Red. Your perspective  _ and  _ his. After all, if someone tried to take you from me…”

His hand slides lower, fingertips brushing over the largest open wound on his way down. Jason holds his breath well after Roman’s hand stops just above his backside.

“...I’d be very upset.”

Finally, Jason exhales. He folds his arms and buries his face in them, willing himself to stop being so fucking pathetic for once in his life.

“Yes, daddy,” he says. “I know.”

“So,” Roman continues, swiping his fingertips back and forth under the waistband of Jason’s sweats. “Tell me how best to protect you from the big, bad Bat.”

Jason wants to say “ _ Fuck me, _ ” even though that would do approximately nothing to dissuade a rage-filled Batman. He licks his lips, wetting his dehydrated mouth as best he can, squirming under Roman’s touch.

“Hard to say,” he admits. “Got no idea what he’s even planning. But he hasn’t burst in here to bust your skull open yet, so that’s probably a good thing.”

“Good to know.”

“And what about you?” Jason asks. “You gonna go on the offensive at all?”

“For what? I’ve done nothing wrong,” Roman says. “I have no reason to go after Batman. Not unless he goes after something of mine first.”

Jason shivers when he hears “mine.” He sucks in another breath. “So… You’re not mad? That they found out?”

“Mad? Of course not,” Roman says. “If anything, I’m excited. Let him hit me with his best shot; I’ll teach him how a man  _ properly _ keeps hold of his son.”

It’s terrible, it’s really and truly awful, but Jason has to give Roman props for one thing: he’s made him feel for the first time in his life that he’s worth fighting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when this story was just a thinly-veiled excuse to write a bunch of kinky porn each chapter? now there's all this plot 'n' shit... hoo boy. hope you guys still like it (especially since I've got like 4 more chapters plotted out in my head, albeit with more porn than these past few)!


	11. Confessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to have this chapter ready for Jason's deathday, but sometimes the universe works things out in ways that we just have to accept.
> 
> as always, read the tags! I will say that this chapter contains desperation/wetting and sex with a person too drunk to consent (in the real world this is called "rape," but in fic world it'd probably be closer to call it "dubcon"). then, of course, there's all the usual stuff. plus some bonus horribleness, because go big or go home.
> 
> enjoy!

Once he’s fully healed — and not a day sooner — Jason gets back to work and tries to pretend like the past few days never happened. Nobody mentions his fainting spell, though the absence of Chain and the other former lieutenants lingers unspoken between all of them.

When Jason enters one of their meeting rooms, he’s surprised to see unmasked faces mixed in with the usual crowd. Women, all of them. They sit on couches and lounge against pool tables, cigarettes in hand, crowding around gang members with big, painted smiles that don’t meet their eyes. Jason recognizes a few of them: Marjorie and Chanel from the corner on 58th and Park; a few of Mama Dora’s girls from the brothel-disguised-as-spa-clinic on the Upper West Side; and, smiling at him from a corner, wine glass in hand, Cherry Doe, whose loser “boyfriend” he put the fear of God into years ago, back when the Red Hood was still new in town. From the looks of it, he’s either not quite an ex, or Cherry’s found herself someone new and just as slimy.

Distracted, he doesn’t realize he’s been staring until a familiar presence settles beside him, grasping his shoulder with a firm, warm hand.

“Red,” Roman says, urging him toward a stool around a squat table. “I know it’s been a while since we’ve had female company, but look alive, won’t you?”

Jason turns to tell him exactly what he thinks about their no-doubt hired help, but the words catch in his throat when he notices Roman’s got a girl dangling off his arm, too. He doesn’t recognize this one, with close-cropped black hair and dark, smokey eyes. Even so, it doesn’t change how he feels.

When he takes too long to answer, Roman beckons for another woman, a redhead who settles by his side with practiced ease. He tugs his arm away when she tries to grab it.

“No thanks,” he says. It comes out a touch more annoyed than he’d like.

Roman says “Suit yourself,” and leaves to go chat with some of his men.

 

Jason spends most of the evening too distracted to focus. Not that anything important is happening, of course; even someone like Roman isn’t so dismissive of people under his employ that he’d assume prostitutes are too stupid to listen and remember.

So what are they even doing, then? The gathering seems more like a social one than anything. If this is Roman’s idea of a get-well present, a throwback to Jason joking about cute girls in bars, it’s not a thoughtful one at all. It displays none of the effort that would’ve gone into noticing his favorite book and hunting down some first editions.

If this isn’t for his sake, he’s forced to consider the option that it’s for everyone else’s. And, while he knows the pay must be good if Roman Sionis is footing the bill, it still makes him sick to his stomach to think that he’s even indirectly supporting this sort of fucked-up party. Sure, the women need to make money in order to survive, and it’s not like _everyone_ on Crime Alley can run around boosting tires, but he never thought he’d be complicit. Not from the John end, anyway.

The redhead — Ambrosia — sticks around despite his disinterest, probably because he’s the only one in the room who isn’t quick to fondle anyone. He gets the sense that she’s not the type who enjoys her current line of work. She brings him drinks that help dull the discomfort in his gut, and he passes her a few hundreds in return, resolving to find her once this is all over and point her in the direction of Wayne Enterprises.

He wonders if Bruce will still trust his judgment as a reference.

The two of them don’t talk, though, mostly because Jason’s eyes are glued on Roman. The other pigs he can understand needing validation from pretty ladies, but Black Mask? His heart thuds ungraciously in his chest whenever he sees Roman’s hand low on Smokey Eyes’ waist, or whenever she reaches up with a dark-lipped smile to adjust his tie.

Maybe Roman catches sight of his face during those fleeting few moments when he lifts his hood to down another drink. If he does, is he observant enough to catch the way Jason’s lips are permanently downturned in a grimace? Does he even care? Is this a show for their men, some kind of camouflage that Roman neglected to discuss with him beforehand, or did he do something to deserve the cold shoulder?

He manages to get through most of the evening without saying anything, but when Roman rests his hand on Smokey’s lower back and murmurs directions into her ear while she bends over across the pool table, his body moves before his brain catches up. He stands and yanks his arm away from Ambrosia, leaving her clutching the air where he used to be. He doesn’t glance back to see how she looks at him when he goes; like tunnel vision, all he can see is Roman.

“Da— Black Mask,” he says, tugging at his hand where it sits on top of Smokey’s around the pool cue. His voice is slurred, though he tries to tell himself it’s not that noticeable. “I’m ready to go. C’mon.”

“Not now, Red,” Roman says without even looking at him. Jason’s heart leaps into his throat; _red_ is right, because that’s exactly what he sees.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, “this is stupid!”

All he can think about as he pulls at Roman’s wrist is how much he wants to be in Smokey’s place. _He_ should be the one by Roman’s side, _he_ should be the one Roman dotes on in public, and _he_ should be the one he looks at more than anyone else. How could Roman go from sitting by his bed all night to paying some chick for her attention? Like hell she’s attracted to him at all; who else but Jason would be fucked up enough to find someone as terrifying as Black Mask sexy?

He gets Roman’s hand off of hers, but Roman yanks it back just as fast. A few snickers come from around the room, mostly from the girls who haven’t had any entertainment beyond whatever brain-melting nonsense the False Facers have had to say to them tonight. Suddenly, it feels like he and Roman are center-stage in some big, dramatic production. He’s not sure whether to be embarrassed by the attention, or soak it in.

“What’s gotten into you?” Roman asks, as if he doesn’t already know. He keeps one hand on Smokey’s lower back even after she straightens up.

“I just…” Jason shuffles around, suddenly drained of his confidence now that Roman, too, is standing at his full height. “...have to talk to you. Alone.”

Out of his periphery, he sees a few False Facers turn their heads, hears them mumble. For a second, Roman’s dead silence in the center of it all makes him wonder if he’s in for another public spanking, but that doesn’t happen.

“You know it’s rude to interrupt,” he says, turning back to the pool table.

Jason _feels_ the motion in his chest, like sand slipping through his fingers. He grabs onto Roman’s arm with both hands, not unlike how some of the working girls do when they’re about to tug a John to the bed. He assumes it doesn’t go unnoticed by the more astute people in the room.

“It’s important,” he says. He doesn’t move until, slowly but surely, Roman lets his hand slip off of Smokey’s back.

“It better be.”

 

Their meeting room exists in the renovated basement of some seedy nightclub. When they exit the insulated area and step out into the stairwell, the steady thrum of a heavy bassline thunders above them. That, Jason tells himself, is why he raises his voice.

“What the hell is that?” he asks, throwing an arm out toward the door.

Roman folds his arms over his chest. “What is what?”

“Don’t play dumb!” Jason knows he’s testing his luck already, but somewhere between the alcohol and the jealousy, he’s lost his filter. “Ignoring me all night, playing nice with that girl. Did you sleep with her? Huh?”

Around the second time he jabs Roman’s chest with his index finger, Jason realizes he’s much drunker than he thought. He hears himself, realizes that the words coming from his mouth make him sound like a crazy girlfriend, but he can’t seem to stop them.

“Jason—”

“Don’t ‘Jason’ me! I’m not a fucking idiot, I know when you’re playing at something,” he says. He brings his hands up to card through his hair, but his helmet gets in the way. He bangs the palm of his hand up against the side in frustration. “Just tell me what the fuck I did! Is it about Batman? Is it—”

With surprising force, Roman grabs him by the throat and slams his back against the unfinished concrete. His hood cracks against it with an audible, almost musical sound, and while it protects his head from any damage, Roman’s palm bears down hard until he can no longer breathe.

“First off,” Roman says, so close now that his mask takes up Jason’s entire visor screen. “Don’t disrespect me, boy, even if no one’s around to see it. You know better than that.”

Jason gurgles out a couple of nonsense syllables, clawing weakly at Roman’s wrist.

“Second…”

Roman presses his hand up above Jason’s Adam’s apple, tilting his head until it’s pushed back. With his other hand, he yanks down on Jason’s shirt collar hard, revealing the embroidered collar underneath. Jason feels his thumb trace over it, toy with the little metal loop meant for attaching a leash.

“...I already told you what this means. Did you see a collar on her?”

It takes a second for Jason to realize Roman’s let up on his throat enough for him to speak. When he does, it’s hesitant and raspy.

“...No.” Roman lifts him by the neck, smacks his head pointedly back against the concrete. Jason corrects himself. “No, sir.”

Again, his airway gets cut off. “That’s right. Just because I’ve got some bimbo hanging off my arm doesn’t mean I give a damn about her one way or the other. This was _supposed_ to boost morale, after everything that’s happened.”

Jason winces. He wonders if “everything” means his illness, or if it stretches all the way back to the former lieutenants now headless and chained to the bottom of Gotham Harbor. Either way, it’s his fault. That much is clear.

“Oh, Jason,” Roman sighs. “Jason, Jason, Jason. I keep forgetting how young you are, how new to the business. It’s normal to keep a few pretty faces around, just for show. I suppose with you around, I’d forgotten that my men need their eye candy, too.”

Jason’s cheeks flush at the compliment. His overreaction seems stupid now, and he wishes he could melt out from under Roman’s hands and into the floor. Even though Roman can’t see his eyes, he averts them, hoping his submission will be audible despite it.

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean it, daddy.”

Roman’s satisfaction hits him in waves. He can feel it in the way he further relaxes his hand, in how his posture shifts, and in how his voice sounds when he says, “It’s alright. I suppose I should be flattered; it’s been a while since anyone’s fought over me.”

For some reason, Jason finds that almost _sad._ He knows he shouldn’t. Knows the statement is prideful and over-masculine at its core, knows that Roman is the one who should be to blame for his good looks getting ruined in the first place. And yet it hits him right where it hurts, in that part of him that knows what it’s like to have people look at you like you’re inherently different. Like you’re scary or disgusting or not even human.

His hand shakes a little when he lifts it up to urge Roman’s hand down away from his throat.

“Well, you know the thing about fights,” he says as he tucks himself up against Roman’s side and steers them back toward the party.

“What’s that?”

Jason smirks. “I always win them.”

 

They have to separate before they go through the door, but things proceed much more smoothly after that. Jason gets a few quizzical looks from the others, but brushes them off with an easy confidence he hadn’t had before. He feels a little more like himself again when he challenges a few of the men to some card games around the table while Roman goes back to playing pool.

“For a buncha guys wearing masks, you all sure have shitty poker faces,” he tells them, sliding his winnings to Ambrosia under the table.

Beating them gets old fast. Besides, the more he wins, the less anyone wants to play with him (and he’s sure the giggles of the nearby women don’t inspire confidence, either). Jason bets his last hand on the right to down the rest of an expensive bottle of whiskey one of the guys has been hogging, and when he inevitably wins, he tosses his hood off altogether and smiles while he chugs. Then he stands up, waits for his vision to stop swaying, and marches over to the pool table.

“Room for one more?” he asks. Roman stares at him when he takes the cue from someone without waiting for an answer.

This game goes far less smoothly. It could be that his coordination isn’t great when he’s drunk, or that you can’t distract the pool balls with banter like he could his opponents over a card game. Mainly, though, he figures it’s because he doesn’t need to bend over as far as he does to shoot, but he insists upon doing it anyway.

Okay, so his ass isn’t as nice as Smokey’s. He can live with that. But Roman had called him eye candy, and that’s what he intends to be. One guy — Winky, so named after losing an eye to a particularly brutal punch from Roman on a ring-wearing day — even abandons his female companionship to sidle up next to him for a while.

When Winky sets a hand on the small of his back and suggests where he should hit the cue ball, Jason smirks over his shoulder at Roman. He receives little response, save for the tightening of Roman’s fingers around the stem of his wine glass.

Somewhere between the time when he pulls one girl by her waist up to join him on top of the pool table and the few minutes he spends leading the room in a drunken rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, he realizes he’s having _fun._ It’s like being cooped up for so long condensed all his energy into one tense, coiled little ball, and Roman’s five-fingered pep talk had turned the key and unlocked it again.

The alcohol probably helped, too.

By the time people start leaving, filing out of the door two-by-two like they’re heading up to Noah’s Ark, Jason is well and truly smashed. Ambrosia is one of the last to leave, kissing him on both cheeks and whispering “Thank you” into his ear. He forgets what she’s so thankful for, but grins and waves goodbye anyway.

 

The room feels darker when only he, Smokey, and Roman are left. Even though they’re underground where the light can’t reach, Jason feels like the moon and the stars wouldn’t be there if he looked outside right now. Maybe it’s the black of Roman’s mask radiating out to drain the color from everything it touches. Maybe it’s Smokey, her eyeshadow drifting off to cover the room like the swirling of dark clouds in a galaxy.

Or maybe he’s about to pass out. That is very likely.

Taking great care to look put-together, Jason saunters toward the pair of them. He can’t resist the urge to swing his hips in a mockery of how Smokey’s been moving all night.

“I have nothing against you,” he says without thinking, taking one of her hands in both of his. “I think it’s an honorable profession, what you do. You guys are— You’re great. I’m from Crime Alley. I know lots of— of ladies like you. So I’m gonna make sure this guy pays you. But then I’m gonna need you t’ leave.”

Smokey glances between him and Roman like she’s not sure whether to take him seriously. Roman mutters something too low for him to hear, hands her a few folded bills from his suit pocket, and then steers her to the door, leaving Jason blinking and wondering where they went. He figures it out just in time for Roman to shut the door and lock it.

By the time Roman has turned back around, Jason’s back up on the pool table, lying face-up with some of the balls digging into his limbs. He shoves them carelessly into the pockets and looks at Roman upside-down as he approaches.

Actually, _whew,_ bad idea. He flips over onto his front and tries to will his churning stomach to settle down. He can’t show that to Roman, though, so he rests his chin in his hand and grins.

“Party’s over, daddy,” he says. “But y’ wanna play with some more balls?”

Jason can practically hear Roman’s eyes rolling. His head even tilts back with the force of it.

“Get down, Jason.”

“Come on, that was funny.”

“ _Down._ ”

He’s not as scared as he probably should be. Giggling, Jason works his way off of the table. He takes a few shaky steps toward Roman, grabbing onto his arm to steady himself. With his hips swaying to the memory of music, he starts to kiss at Roman’s neck.

“You smell like an alcoholic,” Roman says.

“I only had a few drinks,” Jason counters. “Been drinking since I was five. My tolerance is off the _chaaaaain._ ”

Roman stiffens. Jason doesn’t get the double meaning for another long few seconds, but when he does, he doubles up his efforts to get Roman’s mind off his old conquest.

“You’re so sexy, you know,” he says, looping around to Roman’s front to start unbuttoning his shirt. “I love it when you— when you choke me. You’re really hot.”

“Hn.”

Jason gets a few buttons undone and drags his tongue flat over Roman’s clavicle. “I dunno why anyone says you’re not… Scary people can be hot, too.”

“Jason.”

Roman puts a hand on Jason’s chest with the intent to push him off, but the contact just sets Jason’s nerves on fire. He presses closer and licks at Roman’s neck, right where normal skin tapers off into something black and leathery.

“And I just want you to fuck me. God, can I say that right now? I just really want you to fuck me all the time. I feel like you’re— you’re turning me into such a slut.”

“You _are_ a slut,” Roman says, finally reaching up to play with a few strands of Jason’s hair. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“But I—” Jason gulps down another wave of nausea and presses a sloppy kiss to Roman’s throat. “I never woulda done this stuff before. Like, fucking around, and—”

“And sticking your ass out in front of all my men like a cat in heat?” Roman finishes.

Jason laughs a the memory. “Yeah! Like that. Point is, daddy-o…” He kisses upward until he can feel nothing but Roman’s mask — the permanent one, the one poking out from under the funny-looking bug-eyed one he wears over his face — and forgets where he was going with this. Instead, he wonders, “Can you even feel that…?”

Roman pushes him away so hard he almost falls over. The world spins, and he hardly has time to swallow a mouthful of pre-vomit saliva before he’s being flipped around and slammed half-over the pool table. He groans, and doesn’t even have the presence of mind to wonder what he did wrong. Or right.

“Stay there,” Roman says. He doesn’t have to tell Jason twice; all of a sudden, setting his head down on his folded arms feels just heavenly. He doesn’t open his eyes until he feels something cold and hard at his lips, at which point he looks to see the pool cue pressed horizontally against his mouth. “Open up.”

“Mmmn.” Jason quirks a little half-smile, rocking his hips from side to side. “Hold on. ‘Fore we start, I gotta pee—”

“I said _open up._ ”

That tone catches the attention of the part of Jason that’s grown instinctively aware of it. And, like a deer that starts running before it can even register the sound of a snapping twig, he obeys without thinking. He blinks, then opens his mouth, unable to find the brainpower to run through all of the pros and cons of doing this right now. Roman settles the cue between his teeth and makes him bite it.

“Don’t touch it,” he says. “If you let it fall, you’ll be in even bigger trouble than you are right now.”

Jason wants to ask why, exactly, he’s in trouble, but the idea of being punished just makes him giggle. He rests his chin on his arms and grins around the cue.

“You’re a cocky little shit, you know that?” Roman asks him. Jason just bats his eyelashes.

There’s no warning before Roman draws back a hand and spanks him. He doesn’t even bother to pull his pants down. Jason jumps, stepping closer to the table with his upper half still in place. The weird position bends him all up inside, though, so he just shifts from foot to foot instead, suddenly very aware of just how much he drank tonight.

He mumbles something around the cue, but Roman doesn’t listen. He spanks him again. Then _again._

“Dumb little tart, getting wasted like you’re fifteen,” he says.

“ _Daddy_ , st’p,” he murmurs, face flushed and body warm.

“Do you or don’t you want the whole organization to know you’re a whore?” Roman asks. Another spank.

“I gotta pee,” Jason says, but it comes out through his teeth as something like “Nngh guhh-uh ‘ee.”

“Yes or no.” Smack.

Jason can feel himself drooling around the cue. It slips in his mouth when he groans out a slurred, “ _Nuhhh._ ”

“Then don’t. Act. Like. That,” Roman says, punctuating each word with a slap to the ass, but Jason can’t concentrate on what he’s saying, because that’s not what he _meant,_ he meant “no” as in “stop,” and it’s too much to deal with, trying to keep control of his bladder when Roman works him over, and he’s gonna mess up, he’s gonna, gonna—

“No, _don’t!_ ” he cries, pool cue falling out of his mouth to roll away on the table, hands flailing around to grab Roman’s and hold him back. Immediately, he knows what a mistake he just made — not only has he defied Roman’s orders, but he’s physically stopped him, as well. Roman’s calm, still fury turns the air in the room cold.

Jason pulls his hands away fast, cupping himself through his pants. He starts to babble out apologies — “I’m sorry, I just really gotta go, daddy, please, daddy, I can’t m-make it” — but Roman cuts him off with a hand over his mouth.

“I gave you an order,” he says, pressed flush against Jason’s back to speak directly into his ear. “You disobeyed me. I _know_ you can do better than this.”

With his free hand, he reaches around to pry Jason’s hands away from his crotch, holding the pair of them in one of his own. Jason whines in protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Look at this. So drunk you can’t even control your own bladder. I’m teaching you a _lesson,_ boy, on why you shouldn’t do things like that.”

Every twitch, every breath, every single beat of Jason’s heart feels like an immense pressure against his groin. There’s something sobering about almost pissing his pants, but unfortunately, not sobering enough to help him out any. He’s not even sure if being stone-cold sober would help him at all with how much liquid he has in his system. He wants to struggle, wants to move his face away so he can at least _speak,_ but he feels like any movement at all will spell his downfall. Hot, humiliated tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Well?” Roman asks, impatient. “Don’t keep me waiting. I thought this was urgent.”

Then Roman begins to toe at his feet to force his legs open wider, and that’s it. One bladder spasm is all it takes for Jason’s body to give up trying. He jerks and shudders and sobs, but Roman isn’t bluffing; the pair of them stay there, pressed together like that, while Jason empties himself into his pants, a warm, wet trail cutting down his leg that grows larger by the second. And, god, the _sound,_ the deafening _dripdripdripdrip_ of his piss splashing to the floor, that’s almost worse than the act itself.

He pissed himself once before in front of Roman, but he hardly remembers it. So doped-up on whatever sort of adrenaline his whipping gave him, he just chalked the feeling up to more blood and didn’t think too much about it. But this is different. They’re not in a dungeon with concrete floors that a hundred people have already pissed on; they’re in a nice place, with a plush carpet, and he’s fully-clothed and so close to Roman that Roman’s pants are probably getting wet, too. Jason feels like a little kid again, drenched and crying, ready for his father to smack him upside the head and yell at him to clean his mess up.

But Roman doesn’t yell.

When the stream finally stops, Roman sweeps a hand up from Jason’s mouth to his forehead, pushing his hair back. Jason’s sobs come out unmuffled now, ugly and loud with the help of all that alcohol spurring him on. Roman doesn’t yell at him for that, either. Jason figures he’s stewing in his anger, so he starts to babble in the hopes of earning some mercy.

“I-I’m so so-o-rry, I-I didn’t m-mean t-to do it, I, d-daddy-y—”

“Shh.” Surprisingly gentle, Roman pets his hair from the crown of his head to the base. “Shh, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

Somehow, that strange reaction makes it worse. Jason doesn’t know what to expect. He rests his forehead on the edge of the table, shoulders shaking with his heaving breaths.

“I’ll, I’ll, I’ll clean it up, I-I promise, j-just let me up a-and I can do it, daddy—”

“ _Shh._ ” That one’s more final. Roman stops petting his hair and tugs Jason close, holding their heads together. “You did good, sweetie. Daddy’s real proud.”

It’s enough to startle Jason’s tears away. “H-hunh…?”

At long last, Roman releases Jason’s wrists where he’d been holding them just shy of his crotch. He uses his now-free hand to wipe down Jason’s wet cheeks.

“You made daddy very happy just now. Don’t cry.”

“B-but I thought I was punished…”

“Oh, you are. But we can worry about that when you’re sober enough to remember it. For now…” Roman pulls back and looks the pair of them over. “...a bath, I think.”

 

“Red.”

Jason wakes up in bed the next morning to the feeling of a gloved hand shaking him by the shoulder.

“Come, now.”

He whines, the taste of vomit thick in his throat, and tries to curl in on himself and shut the rest of the world out.

“ _Jason._ ”

It doesn’t work.

“Wake up for daddy, won’t you?”

Between the talking and the shaking, Jason can’t ignore Roman for long. He rolls over, the world swaying side-to-side even with his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to open them for fear of how much worse it’ll make his headache.

“Go ‘way,” he says. He lashes out weakly with one arm, but it does little more than displace what he assumes is Roman’s tie. “Don’t feel good.”

“I should think not, with how much you drank last night. That’s why you need to wake up and come to breakfast,” Roman says. “Bacon and eggs. Coffee. It’ll do wonders for that hangover.”

Jason buries his face in the pillow. “Just bring me a plate.”

“No, that won’t do. You’ve been wasting your life away in this bed. Now, come on.” Roman loops an arm around his shoulders and hoists him into a sitting position. “Up.”

Jason groans again and buries his face in his knees. It’s then that he comes to the realization that he’s naked.

“God, what happened last night…?”

Roman keeps a hand on his upper back. His thumb trails back and forth over Jason’s biggest whipping scar. “What do you remember?”

“I—”

_“—’m gonna be sick.”_

_Too much movement outside the windows of the car. A trash can on the floor. It’s easy to puke into it from his position on his side across the backseat, legs slung over Roman’s._

_Nothing left of the rest of the drive to the penthouse. One brief memory of slumping against the side of the elevator on the way up. It moves too fast._

_A bathroom. The sight of his own vomit in the toilet bowl. Mostly liquid. He didn’t eat enough._

_Standing under the spray of the shower. It’s hard to stay up. He ends up curled in on himself on the floor of it, whining and sobbing as the bath fills up with water around him._

_“Shh, shh,” against the side of his head. A warm body underneath his. The tub full impossibly fast. Bare legs stretched out in front of him. Two pairs. His, and someone else’s._

_More gaps. Hands on his body. Bouncing up and down. Too full. Slumping over the side of the tub to vomit in a wastebasket. Roman cupping his head, but still thrusting up into him the entire time._

_Leaning back against him. It feels much better now. Nuzzling against hard, black, leathery skin. Pressing his open mouth to it._

_Clinging to Roman’s arms where they wrap around his body. They’re strong. Warm. Safe. It feels good. Everything feels good. He likes whatever Roman’s telling him, soft and possessive, even though he can’t remember the words. He wants to tell him something, too. Something important._

_But what? The memory’s too hazy. It feels molten in his chest when he tries to pry into it. Words spilling out of his lips like lava down the side of a cliff. Warm and heavy things. Roman humming back in acknowledgement. What did he say…?_

“Anything?”

Jason frowns. “Not much.” Probably nothing important. Except…

He groans again and tucks his head even deeper down between his legs and his chest.

“I pissed myself, didn’t I?”

Roman’s light chuckle makes his face feel even hotter. “Don’t feel too bad. I might have goaded you into it a bit.”

“Ugh, perv!” Jason lashes out again, this time striking a blow firmly against Roman’s chest. It’s open-handed and not even half the strength of a serious attack. “Shoulda known a gross old man like you would be into that.”

“There’s very little I’m _not_ into,” Roman says. He takes Jason’s hand and gives his wrist a reprimanding smack with two fingers. “But I’ve found the same tends to run true for you, too.”

Jason grumbles and tries to pull his arm back, but Roman holds him firm. “Up. Breakfast. Now, Jason.”

With a small, mischievous grin, Jason turns to face Roman at last. “ _Right_ now? Can’t even gimme a chance to get dressed? You really _are_ a pervert.”

“If that’s the way you feel, then fine,” Roman says. “No clothes to breakfast. None for the rest of the day, as a matter of fact.”

Jason’s grin widens. “I’m gonna make you regret that, old man.”

Before he can get out the door, though, Roman stops him. Jason turns with a harsh “What _now?_ ” on his tongue, but bites it back when he sees Roman pull something out of his pocket.

“Well,” he says, “actually, I suppose I could make one small exception.”

Jason takes his collar back and fastens it around his neck before heading out of the room.

 

By the end of breakfast, Jason has forgotten all about his hangover, partially due to the food, but mostly because he ends up bouncing up and down in Roman’s lap while holding onto his tie for dear life. He’s glad he was at least given the chance to brush his teeth, because it’s the last bit of leniency he’s given all day. He’s not allowed to so much as wipe away the cum that dribbles down his legs after they’re done.

Throughout the day, during those rare moments of respite when he and Roman aren’t fucking like rabbits on every available surface, he tries to recover more of his memories. It’s slow-going. Everything past his first game of pool is more an enigma than a concrete fact, closer to a dream than an actual event. Did he really steal one of the prostitute’s drinks just to smear some of the lipstick from her glass onto his own mouth? Had he actually tried on one of the False Facer’s leather masks? Or did he doze off at some point and simply dream that he was the life of the party?

Roman is the only certainty of his whole night. Roman, staring at him from across the room. Roman, bending him over the pool table and whispering filthy things in his ear. Roman, fucking him in the bathtub so hard that the only sounds he can remember are the water sloshing and his own breathy moans.

Roman, telling him “ _I know_ ” when he murmurs that Very Important Thing.

 

_“I know,” he says, circling a finger around Jason’s nipple._

_“I really, really do,” Jason slurs, half of his face pressed ungracefully into the crook of Roman’s neck._

_“I know,” Roman says, holding him around the waist and fucking him harder, deeper._

_“I just love you,” Jason says, “so much.”_

_“I know.”_

 

Jason freezes on Roman’s lap and feels his whole world go cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> did u die tho? let me know on [tumblr.](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/)
> 
> credit for Winky the False Facer goes to my dear Misandrie.


End file.
